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THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 


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OF   THE 


UNIVERSITY 

OF 


Gordon  Marriott 


Page  38 


THE  TURN  OF  THE 
BALANCE 


BRAND  WHITLOCK 

Author  of  The  Happy  Average 

Her  Infinite  Variety 

The  13th  District 


With  lUustralioiis  by 

JAY  HAMBlDGE 


OF   THE 

OF 

INDIANAPOLIS 

THE  BOBBS-MERRILL  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 


111)1^^1/^  ...  /r  HI  IT 

9ENERM 


\.-'' 


Copyright  1907 
The  Bobbs-Merrill  Compant 

March 


•     ^T*T■ 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF 

SAMUEL  M.  JONES 

Died  July  12, 1904 


206440 


Of 


\^, 


'i-Q;:V'^, 


On  the  other  hand,  a  boy  was  bound  to  defend 
them  against  anything  tliat  he  thought  slighting  or 
insulting;  and  you  did  not  have  to  verify  the  fact 
that  anything  had  been  said  or  done;  you  merely 
had  to  hear  that  it  had.  It  once  fell  to  my  boy  to 
avenge  such  a  reported  wrong  from  a  boy  who  had 
not  many  friends  in  school,  a  timid  creature  whom 
the  mere  accusation  frightened  half  out  of  his  wits, 
and  who  wildly  protested  his  innocence.  He  ran, 
and  my  boy  followed  with  the  other  boys  after  him, 
till  they  overtook  the  culprit  and  brought  him  to 
bay  against  a  high  board  fence;  and  there  my  boy 
struck  him  in  his  imploring  face.  He  tried  to  feel 
like  a  righteous  champion,  but  he  felt  like  a  brutal 
ruffian.  He  long  had  the  sight  of  that  terrified, 
weeping  face,  and  with  shame  and  sickness  of  heart 
he  cowered  before  it.  It  was  pretty  nearly  the 
last  of  his  fighting;  and  though  he  came  off  victor, 
he  felt  that  he  would  rather  be  beaten  himself 
than  do  another  such  act  of  justice.  In  fact,  it 
seems  best  to  be  very  careful  how  we  try  to  do 
justice  in  this  world,  and  mostly  to  leave  retribu- 
tion of  all  kinds  to  God,  who  really  knows  about 
things;  and  content  ourselves  as  much  as  possible 
with  mercy,  whose  mistakes  are  not  so  irreparable. 

From  "A  Boy's  Town" 

By  William  Dean  Howells 


THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 


Book  I 


THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 


As  Elizabeth  Ward  stood  that  morning  before  the 
wide  hearth  in  the  dining-room,  she  was  glad  that  she 
still  could  find,  in  this  first  snow  of  the  season,  the 
simple  wonder  and  deHght  of  that  childhood  she  had 
left  not  so  very  far  behind.  Her  last  glimpse  of  the 
world  the  night  before  had  been  of  trees  lashed  by  a 
cold  rain,  of  arc-lamps  with  globes  of  fog,  of  wet  as- 
phalt pavements  reflecting  the  lights  of  Claybourne 
Avenue.  But  now,  everywhere,  there  was  snow,  heaped 
in  exquisite  drifts  about  the  trees,  and  clinging  in  soft 
masses  to  the  rough  bark  of  their  trunks.  The  iron 
fence  about  the  great  yard  was  half  buried  in  it,  the 
houses  along  the  avenue  seemed  far  away  and  strange 
in  the  white  transfiguration,  and  the  roofs  lost  their 
familiar  outlines  against  the  low  gray  sky  that  hung 
over  them. 

"Hurry,  Gusta!"  said  Elizabeth.  "This  is  splendid  ^ 
I  must  go  right  out !" 

The  maid  who  was  laying  the  breakfast  smiled;  '^It 
was  a  regular  blizzard,  Miss  Elizabeth.'* 

"Was  it?"  Elizabeth  lifted  her  skirt  a  Httle,  and 
rested  the  tde  of  her  slipper  on  the  low  brass  fender. 

3 


4         THE  TURN   OF  THE   BALANCE 

The  wood  was  crackling  cheerfully,  "Has  mama  gone 
out?" 

"Oh,  yes,  Miss  Elizabeth,  an  hour  ago." 

*'Of  course/'  Elizabeth  said,  glancing  at  the  little 
clock  on  the  mantelpiece,  ticking  in  its  refined  way.  Its 
hands  pointed  to  half-past  ten.  "I  quite  forgot  the  din- 
ner." Her  brow  clouded.  "What  a  bore !"  she  thought. 
Then  she  said  aloud :  "Didn't  mama  leave  any  word  ?'* 

"She  said  not  to  disturb  you,  Miss  Elizabeth." 

Gusta  had  served  the  breakfast,  and  now,  surveying 
her  work  with  an  expression  of  pleasure,  poured  the 
coffee. 

Beside  Elizabeth's  plate  lay  the  mail  and  a  morning 
newspaper.  The  newspaper  had  evidently  been  read 
at  some  earlier  breakfast,  and  because  it  was  rumpled 
Elizabeth  pushed  it  aside.  She  read  her  letters  while 
she  ate  her  breakfast,  and  then,  when  she  laid  her  nap- 
kin aside,  she  looked  out  of  the  windows  again. 

"I  must  go  out  for  a  long  walk,"  she  said,  speaking 
as  much  to  herself  as  to  the  maid,  though  not  in  the 
same  eager  tone  she  had  found  for  her  resolution  a 
while  before.  "It  must  have  snowed  very  hard.  It 
wasn't  snowing  when  I  came  home." 

"It  began  at  midnight,  Miss  Elizabeth,"  said  Gusta, 
"and  it  snowed  so  hard  I  had  an  awful  time  getting 
here  this  morning.  I  could  hardly  find  my  way,  it  fell 
so  thick  and  fast." 

Elizabeth  did  not  reply,  and  Gusta  went  on:  "I 
stayed  home  last  night — ^my  brother  just  got  back  yes- 
terday ;  I  stayed  to  see  him." 

"Your  brother?" 

"Yes ;  Archie.  He's  been  in  the  army.  He  got  home 
yesterday  from  the  Phil'pines." 


THE   TURN   OF   THE   BALANCE  5 

"How  interesting !"  said  Elizabeth  indifferently. 

"Yes,  he*s  been  there  three  years ;  his  time  was  out 
and  he  came  home.  Oh,  you  should  see  him,  Miss  Eliz- 
abeth. He  looks  so  fine !" 

"Does  he  look  as  fine  as  you,  Gusta  ?'* 

Elizabeth  smiled  affectionately,  and  Gusta's  fair  Ger- 
man skin  flushed  to  her  yellow  hair. 

"Now,  Miss  Elizabeth,"  she  said  in  an  embarrass- 
ment that  could  not  hide  her  pleasure,  "Archie's  really 
handsome — ^he  put  on  his  soldier  clothes  and  let  us  see 
him.  He's  a  fine  soldier.  Miss  Elizabeth.  He  was  the 
best  shooter  in  his  regiment ;  he  has  a  medal.  He  said 
it  was  a  sharp-shooter's  medal." 

"Oh,  indeed !"  said  Elizabeth,  her  already  slight  in- 
terest flagging.  "Then  he  must  be  a  fine  shot." 

Though  Elizabeth  in  a  flash  of  imagination  had  the 
scene  in  Gusta's  home  the  night  before — the  brother 
displaying  himself  in  his  uniform,  his  old  German 
father  and  mother  glowing  with  pride,  the  children 
gathered  around  in  awe  and  wonder — she  was  really 
thinking  of  the  snow,  and  speculating  as  to  what  new 
pleasure  it  would  bring,  and  with  this  she  rose  from 
the  table  and  went  into  the  drawing-room.  There  she 
stood  in  the  deep  window  a  moment,  and  looked  out. 
The  Maceys'  man,  clearing  the  walk  over  the  way,  had 
paused  in  his  labor  to  lean  with  a  discouraged  air  on 
his  wooden  shovel.  A  man  was  trudging  by,  his  coat 
collar  turned  up,  his  shoulders  hunched  disconsolately, 
the  snow  clinging  tenaciously  to  his  feet  as  he  plowed 
his  way  along.  At  the  sight,  Elizabeth  shrugged  her 
shoulders,  gave  a  little  sympathetic  shiver,  turned 
from  her  contemplation  of  the  avenue  that  stretched 
away  white  and  still,  and  went  to  the  library.  Here  she 


6  THE  TURN   OF   THE   BALANCE 

got  down  a  book  and  curled  herself  up  on  a  divan 
near  the  fireplace.  Far  away  she  heard  the  tinkle  of 
some  solitary  sleigh-bell. 

When  the  maid  came  into  the  adjoining  room  a  few 
moments  later,  Elizabeth  said :  "Gusta,  please  hand  me 
that  box  of  candy." 

Elizabeth  arranged  herself  in  still  greater  comfort, 
put  a  bit  of  the  chocolate  in  her  mouth,  and  opened  her 
book.  "Gusta,  you're  a  comfort,"  she  said.  "Catch  me 
going  out  on  a  day  like  this !" 

Mrs.  Ward  came  home  at  noon,  and  when  she 
learned  that  Elizabeth  had  spent  the  morning  in  the 

.  library,  she  ^ook  on  an  air  of  such  superiority  as  was 
justified  only  in  one  who  had  not  allowed  even  a  bliz- 
zard to  interfere  with  the  serious  duties  of  life.    She 

•  had  learned  several  new  signals  at  the  whist  club  and, 
as  she  told  Elizabeth  with  a  reproach  for  her  neglect 
of  the  game,  she  had  mastered  at  last  Elwood's  new 
system.  But  Elizabeth,  when  she  had  had  her  luncheon, 
returned  to  the  library  and  her  book.  She  stayed  there 
an  hour,  then  suddenly  startled  her  mother  by  fling- 
ing the, volume  to  the  floor  in  disgust  and  running 
from  the  room  and  up  the  stairs.  She  came  down 
presently  dressed  for  the  street. 

"Don't  be  put  long,  dear;  remember  the  dinner," 
Mrs.  Ward  called  after  her. 

As  she  turned  in  between  the  high  banks  of  snow 
piled  along  either  side  of  the  walk,  Elizabeth  felt  the 
fine  quality  of  the  air  that  sparkled  with  a  cold  vitality, 
as  pure  as  the  snow  that  seemed  to  exhale  it.  She 
tossed  her  head  as  if  to  rid  it  of  all  the  disordered  fan- 
|des  she  had  gathered  in  the  unreal  world  of  the  ro- 


THE   TURN   OF   THE   BALANCE  7 

mance  with  which  she  had  spent  the  day.  Then  for  the 
first  time  she  reaHzed  how  gigantic  the  storm  had  been. 
Long  processions  of  men  armed  with  shovels,  happy 
in  the  temporary  prosperity  this  chance  for  work  had 
brought,  had  cleared  the  sidewalks.  On  the  avenue 
the  snow  had  been  beaten  into  a  hard  yellow  track  by 
the  horses  and  sleighs  that  coursed  so  gaily  over  it. 
The  cross-town  trolley-cars  glided  along  between  the 
windrows  of  the  snow  the  big  plow  had  whirled  from 
the  tracks.  Little  children,  in  bright  caps  and  leggings, 
were  playing  in  the  yards,  testing  new  sleds,  tumbling 
about  in  the  white  drifts,  flinging  snowballs  at  one  an- 
other, their  laughter  and  screams  harmonizing  with  the 
bells.  Claybourne  Avenue  was  alive;  the  solitary  bell 
that  Elizabeth  had  heard  jingling  in  the  still  air  that 
morning  had  been  joined  by  countless  strings  of  other 
bells,  until  now  the  air  vibrated  with  their  musical 
clamor.  Great  Russian  sledges  with  scarlet  plumes 
shaking  at  their  high-curved  dashboards  swept  by,  and 
the  cutters  sped  along  in  their  impromptu  races,  the 
happy  faces  of  their  occupants  ruddy  in  their  furs,  the 
bells  on  the  excited  horses  chiming  in  the  keen  air.  At 
the  corner  of  Twenty-fifth  Street,  a  park  policeman, 
sitting  his  magnificent  bay  horse,  reviewed  the  swiftly 
passing  parade.  The  pedestrians  along  the  sidewalk 
shouted  the  racers  on ;  as  the  cutters,  side  by  side,  rose 
and  fell  over  the  street-crossing  a  party  of  school-boys 
assailed  them  with  a  shower  of  snowballs. 

Elizabeth  knew  many  of  the  people  in  the  passing 
sleighs;  she  knew  all  of  those  in  the  more  imposing 
turnouts.  She  bowed  to  her  acquaintances  with  a  smile 
that  came  from  the  exhilaration  of  the  sharp  winter 
air,  more  than  from  any  jo}r  she  had  in  the  recognition. 


S         THE  TURN  OF  THE   BALANCE 

But  from  one  of  the  cutters  Gordon  Marriott  waved  his 
whip  at  her,  and  she  returned  his  salute  with  a  little 
shake  of  her  big  muff.  Her  gray  eyes  sparkled  and  her 
cheeks  against  her  furs  were  pink.  Every  one  was 
nervously  exalted  by  the  snow-storm  that  afternoon, 
and  Elizabeth,  full  of  health  and  youthful  spirit,  tingled 
with  the  joy  the  snow  seemed  to  have  brought  to  the 
world. 


II 


His  house  was  all  illumined;  the  light  streaming 
from  its  windows  glistened  on  the  polished  crust  of  the 
frozen  snow,  and  as  Stephen  Ward  drove  up  that  even- 
ing, he  sighed,  remembering  the  dinner.  He  sprang 
out,  slammed  the  door  of  his  brougham  and  dashed  in- 
doors, the  wheels  of  his  retreating  carriage  giving  out 
again  their  frosty  falsetto.  The  breath  of  cold  air  Ward 
inhaled  as  he  ran  into  the  house  was  grateful  to  him, 
and  he  would  have  liked  more  of  it ;  it  would  have  re- 
freshed and  calmed  him  after  his  hard  day  on  the 
Board. 

As  he  entered  the  wide  hall,  Elizabeth  was  just  de- 
scending the  stairs.  She  came  fresh  from  her  toilet, 
clothed  in  a  dinner  gown  of  white,  her  round  arms  bare 
to  the  elbow,  her  young  throat  just  revealed,  her 
dark  hair  done  low  on  her  neck,  and  the  smile  that 
lighted  her  gray  eyes  pleased  Ward. 

As  she  went  for  her  father's  kiss  Elizabeth  noted  the 
cool  outdoor  atmosphere,  and  the  odor  of  cigar  smoke 
and  Russia  leather  that  always  hung  about  his  person. 

"You  are  refreshing !"  she  said.  "The  frost  clings  to 
you." 

He  smiled  as  she  helped  him  with  his  overcoat,  and 
then  he  backed  up  to  the  great  fire,  and  stood  there 
shrugging  his  shoulders  and  rubbing  his  hands  in  the 
warmth.  His  face  was  fresh  and  ruddy,  his  white  hair 

9 


lo        THE   TURN   OF   THE   BALANCE 

was  rumpled,  his  stubbed  mustache,  which  ordinarily 
gave  an  effect  of  saving  his  youth  in  his  middle  years, 
seemed  to  bristle  aggressively,  and  his  eyes  still  burned 
from  the  excitement  of  the  day. 

"What  have  you  been  doing  all  day?"  Elizabeth 
asked,  standing  before  him,  her  hands  on  his  shoulders. 
"Battling  hard  for  life  in  the  wheat  pit?"  Her  eyes 
sparkled  with  good  humor. 

Ward  took  Elizabeth's  face  between  his  palms  as  he 
said  jubilantly: 

"No,  but  I've  been  making  old  Macey  battle  for  his 
life— and  I've  won." 

His  gray  eyes  flashed  with  the  sense  of  victory,  he 
drew  himself  erect,  tilted  back  on  his  heels.  He  did  not 
often  speak  of  his  business  affairs  at  home,  and  when 
he  did,  no  one  understood  him.  During  the  weeks  in- 
deed, in  which  the  soft  moist  weather  and  constant 
rains  had  prevented  the  rise  in  the  wheat  market  on 
which  he  had  so  confidently  gambled,  he  had  resolutely 
and  unselfishly  kept  his  fear  and  his  suspense  to  him- 
self, and  now  even  though  at  last  he  could  indulge  his 
exultation,  he  drew  a  long,  deep  breath. 

"By  Jove!"  he  exclaimed.  "The  snow  came  just  in 
the  nick  of  time  for  me !" 

"Well,  you  march  right  up-stairs  and  get  your  clothes 
on,"  said  Elizabeth  as  she  took  her  father  by  the  arm, 
gathering  up  the  train  of  her  white  gown,  heavy  with 
its  sequins  and  gracefully  impeding  her  progress,  and 
led  him  to  the  stairs.  She  smiled  up  into  his  face  as 
she  did  so,  and,  as  he  turned  the  corner  of  the  wide 
staircase,  he  bent  and  kissed  her  again. 

Though  the  guests  whom  Mrs.  Ward  had  asked  to 
her  dinner  that  night  all  came  in  closed  carriages^  bun- 


THE   TURN   OF  THE   BALANCE         ii 

died  in  warm  and  elegant  furs,  and  though  they  stepped 
from  their  own  doors  into  their  carriages  and  then 
ahghted  from  them  at  the  door  of  the  Wards',  they  all, 
when  they  arrived,  talked  excitedly  of  the  storm  and 
adjured  one  another  to  confess  that  they  had  never 
known  such  cold.  The  women,  who  came  down  from 
the  dressing-room  in  bare  arms  and  bare  shoulders, 
seemed  to  think  less  of  the  cold  than  the  men,  who 
were,  doubtless,  not  so  inured  to  exposure;  but  they 
were  more  excited  over  it  and  looked  on  the  phenom- 
enon in  its  romantic  light,  and  began  to  celebrate  the 
poetic  aspects  of  the  winter  scene.  But  the  men 
laughed  at  this. 

"There  isn't  much  poetry  about  it  down  town,"  said 
Dick  Ward.  ''No  poet  would  have  called  that  snow 
beautiful  if  he'd  seen  it  piled  so  high  as  to  blockade  the 
street-cars  and  interrupt  business  generally."  He  spoke 
with  the  young  pride  he  was  finding  in  himself  as  a 
business  man,  though  it  would  have  been  hard  to  tell 
just  what  his  business  was. 

"Oh,  but  Dick,"  said  Miss  Bonnell,  her  dark  face 
lighting  with  a  fine  smile,  "the  poet  wouldn't  have 
thought  of  business !" 

"No,  I  suppose  not,"  admitted  Dick  witH  the  con- 
tempt a  business  man  should  feel  for  a  poet. 

"He  might  have  found  a  theme  in  the  immense  dam- 
age the  storm  has  done — telegraph  wires  all  down, 
trains  all  late,  the  whole  country  in  the  grip  of  the  bliz- 
zard, and  a  cold  wave  sweeping  down  from  Medicine 
Hat." 

The  slender  young  man  who  spoke  was  Gordon  Mar- 
riott, and  he  made  his  observation  in  a  way  that  was 
almost  too  serious  to  be  conventional  or  even  desirable 


13        THE   TURN   OF   THE   BALANCE 

in  a  society  where  seriousness  was  not  encouraged.  He 
looked  dreamily  into  the  fire,  as  if  he  had  merely 
spoken  a  thought  aloud  rather  than  addressed  any  one ; 
but  the  company  standing  about  the  fireplace,  trying 
to  make  the  talk  last  for  the  few  moments  before  din- 
ner was  announced,  looked  up  suddenly,  and  seemed  to 
be  puzzled  by  the  expression  on  his  smooth-shaven  del- 
icate face. 

**Oh,  a  theme  for  an  epic !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Modder- 
well,  the  wife  of  the  rector.  Her  pale  face  was  glow- 
ing with  unusual  color,  and  her  great  dark  eyes  were 
lighting  with  enthusiasm.  As  she  spoke,  she  glanced 
at  her  husband,  and  seemed  to  shrink  in  her  black 
gown. 

"But  we  have  no  poet  to  do  it,"  said  Elizabeth. 

"Oh,  I  say,"  interrupted  Modderwell,  speaking  in 
the  upper  key  he  employed  in  addressing  women,  and 
then,  quickly  changing  to  the  deep,  almost  gruff  tone 
which,  with  his  affected  English  accent,  he  used  when 
he  spoke  to  men,  "our  friend  Marriott  here  could  do 
it;  he's  dreamer  enough  for  it — eh,  Marriott?"  He 
gave  his  words  the  effect  of  a  joke,  and  Marriott 
smiled  at  them,  while  the  rest' laughed  in  their  readi- 
ness to  laugh  at  anything. 

"No,"  said  Marriott,  "I  couldn't  do  it,  though  I 
wish  I  could.  Walt  Whitman  might  have  done  it ;  he 
could  have  begun  with  the  cattle  on  the  plains,  freez- 
ing, with  their  tails  to  the  wind,  and  catalogued  every- 
thing on  the  way  till  he  came  to  the  stock  quotations 
and—" 

"The  people  sleighing  on  Claybourne  Avenue,"  said 
Elizabeth,  remembering  her  walk  of  the  afternoon. 
"And  he  would  have  gone  on  tracing  the  more  subtle 


THE  TURN   OF  THE   BALANCE        13 

and  sinister  effects — perhaps  suggesting  something 
tragic." 

"Well,  now,  really,  when  I  was  in  Canada,  you 
know—"  began  Modderwell.  Though  he  had  been 
born  in  Canada  and  had  lived  most  of  his  life  there,  he 
always  referred  to  the  experience  as  if  it  had  been  a 
mere  visit;  he  wished  every  one  to  consider  him  an 
Englishman.  And  nearly  every  one  did,  except  Mar- 
riott, who  looked  at  Modderwell  in  his  most  innocent 
manner  and  began : 

"Oh,  you  Canadians — " 

But  just  then  dinner  was  announced,  and  though 
Elizabeth  smiled  at  Marriott  with  sympathy,  she  was 
glad  to  have  him  interrupted  in  his  philosophizing,  or 
poetizing,  or  whatever  it  was,  to  take  her  out  to  the  din- 
ing-room, where  the  great  round  table,  with  its  mound 
of  scarlet  roses  and  tiny  glasses  of  sherry  glowing 
ruddy  in  the  soft  light  of  the  shaded  candelabra, 
awaited  them.  And  there  they  passed  through  the  long 
courses,  at  first  talking  lightly,  but  excitedly,  of  the 
snow,  mentioning  the  pleasure  and  the  new  sensations 
it  would  afford  them ;  then  of  their  acquaintances ;  of  a 
new  burlesque  that  had  run  for  a  year  in  a  New  York 
theater ;  then  of  a  new  romance  in  which  a  great  many 
people  were  killed  and  imprisoned,  though  not  in  a 
disagreeable  manner,  and,  in  short,  talked  of  a  great 
many  unimportant  things,  but  talked  of  them  as  if 
they  were,  in  reality,  of  the  utmost  importance. 

The  butler  had  taken  off  the  salad ;  they  were  waiting 
for  the  dessert.  Suddenly  from  the  direction  of  the 
kitchen  came  a  piercing  scream,  evidently  a  woman's 
scream;  all  the  swinging  doors  between  the  dining- 
room  and  the  distant  kitchen  could  not  muffle  it.  Mrs, 


14        THE   TURN   OF  THE   BALANCE 

Mbdderwell  started  nervously,  then,  at  a  look  from  her 
husband,  composed  herself  and  hung  her  head  with 
embarrassment.  The  others  at  the  table  started, 
though  not  so  visibly,  and  then  tried  to  appear  as  if 
they  had  not  done  so.  Mrs.  Ward  looked  up  in  alarm, 
first  at  Ward,  who  hastily  gulped  some  wine,  and  then 
at  Elizabeth.  Wonder  and  curiosity  were  in  all  the 
faces  about  the  board — wonder  and  curiosity  that  no 
sophistication  could  conceal.  They  waited;  the  time 
grew  long;  Mrs.  Ward,  who  always  suffered  through 
her  dinners,  suffered  more  than  ever  now.  Her  guests 
tried  bravely  to  sit  as  if  nothing  were  wrong,  but  at 
last  their  little  attempts  at  conversation  failed,  and  they 
sat  in  painful  silence.  The  moments  passed ;  Ward  and 
his  wife  exchanged  glances;  Elizabeth  looked  at  her 
mother  sympathetically.  At  last  the  door  swung  and 
the  butler  entered ;  the  guests  could  not  help  glancing 
at  him.  But  in  his  face  there  was  a  blank  and  tutored 
passivity  that  was  admirable,  almost  heroic. 

When  the  women  were  in  the  drawing-room,  Mrs. 
Ward  excused  herself  for  a  moment  and  went  to  the 
kitchen.  She  returned  presently,  and  Elizabeth  voiced 
the  question  the  others  were  too  polite  to  ask. 

"What  on  earth's  the  matter?" 

"Matter!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Ward.  "Gusta's  going, 
that's  all."  She  said  it  with  the  feeling  such  a -calamity 
merited. 

"When?" 

"Now." 

"But  the  scream — what  was  it  ?" 

"Well,  word  came  about  her  father ;  he's  been  hurt, 
or  killed,  or  something,  in  the  railroad  yards." 

"Oh,  how  dreadful !"  the  women  politely  chorused. 


THE   TURN   OF   THE   BALANCE         15 

"Yes,  I  should  think  so,"  said  Mrs.  Ward.  "To  be 
left  like  this  without  a  moment's  warning!  And  then 
that  awful  contretemps  at  dinner !"  Mrs.  Ward  looked 
all  the  anguish  and  shame  she  felt. 

"But  Gusta  couldn't  help  that,"  said  Elizabeth. 

"No,"  said  Mrs.  Ward,  lapsing  from  her  mood  of 
exaggeration,  "I  know  that,  of  course.  The  poor  girl 
is  quite  broken  up.  I  hope  it  is  nothing  really  serious. 
And  yet,"  she  went  on,  her  mind  turning  again  to  her 
own  domestic  misfortunes,  "people  of  her  class  seem  to 
have  the  most  unerring  faculty  for  calamity.  They're 
always  getting  hurt,  or  sick,  or  dying,  or  something. 
The  servants  in  my  house  suffer  more  bereavement  in 
the  course  of  a  month  than  all  the  rest  of  my  acquaint- 
ance in  a  lifetime." 

And  then  the  ladies  took  up  the  servant-girl  prob- 
lem, and  canvassed  it  hopelessly  until  the  men  were 
heard  entering  the  library. 


Ill 


While  Mrs.  Ward  was  discussing  her  maid  with  her 
guests,  Gusta  was  hurrying  homeward  alone,  the  prey 
of  fears,  omens  and  forebodings.  There  was  the  shock 
of  this  sudden  news  from  home,  and  her  horror  of 
what  awaited  her  there ;  besides  she  had  a  strange  feel- 
ing about  leaving  the  Wards  in  this  way.  The  night 
had  grown  bitterly  cold.  The  frozen  snow  crunched 
with  a  whining  noise  under  her  heels  as  she  passed 
swiftly  along.  In  the  light  of  the  arc-lamps  that  swung 
at  the  street  crossings,  the  trees  along  the  curb  cast 
their  long  shadows  before  her,  falling  obliquely  across 
the  sidewalk  and  stretching  off  into  the  yard ;  as  she 
passed  on,  they  wheeled,  lost  themselves  in  gloom,  then 
appeared  again,  stretching  the  other  way.  The  shadows 
confused  and  frightened  her.  She  thought  of  Elizabeth 
and  all  her  kindness;  when  would  she  see  Elizabeth 
again?  With  this  horrible  thing  at  home  all  had 
changed ;  her  mother  would  need  her  now.  She  thought 
of  the  hard  work,  with  the  children  crying  about,  and 
the  ugly  kitchen,  with  none  of  the  things  there  were 
at  the  Wards'  to  make  the  work  easy.  She  would  have 
to  lug  the  water  in  from  the  cistern ;  the  pump  would 
be  frozen,  and  the  water  would  splash  on  her  hands 
and  make  them  red  and  raw  and  sore;  they  could 
never  be  white  and  soft  like  Elizabeth's.  She  would 
have  to  shovel  the  snow,  and  make  paths,  and  split 
kindlings,  and  carry  wood  and  coal,  and  make  fires. 

i6 


THE  TURN   OF   THE   BALANCE        17 

And  then  the  house  would  never  be  warm  like  the 
Wards' ;  they  would  eat  in  the  kitchen  and  sit  there  all 
day  long.  The  storm,  which  had  made  no  change  at  all 
at  the  Wards*,  would  make  it  all  so  much  harder  at 
home.  Her  father  would  be  sick  a  long  time ;  and,  of 
course,  he  would  lose  his  job;  the  house  would  be 
gloomy  and  sad ;  it  would  be  worse  than  the  winter  he 
had  been  on  strike. 

The  keen  wind  that  was  blowing  from  the  northwest 
stung  Gusta's  face ;  she  felt  the  tears  in  her  eyes,  and 
when  they  ran  on  to  her  cheeks  they  froze  at  once  and 
made  her  miserable.  She  shuddered  with  the  cold,  her 
fingers  were  numb,  her  feet  seemed  to  be  bare  on  the 
snow,  her  ears  were  burning.  The  wind  blew  against 
her  forehead  and  seemed  as  if  it  would  cut  the  top  of 
her  head  off  as  with  a  cold  blade.  She  tried  to  pull 
her  little  jacket  about  her;  the  jacket  was  one  Eliza- 
beth had  given  her,  and  she  had  always  been  proud  of 
it  and  thought  that  it  made  her  look  like  Elizabeth, 
but  it  could  not  keep  her  warm  now.  She  ran  a  few 
steps,  partly  to  get  warm,  partly  to  make  swifter  pro- 
gress homeward,  partly  for  no  reason  at  all.  She 
thought  of  her  comfortable  room  at  the  Wards*  and  the 
little  colored  pictures  Elizabeth  had  given  her  to  hang 
about  the  walls.  An  hour  before  she  had  expected  to 
go  to  that  room  and  rest  there, — and  now  she  was  go- 
ing home  to  sickness  and  sorrow  and  ugly  work.  She 
gave  a  little  sob  and  tried  to  brush  away  her  tears,  but 
they  were  frozen  to  her  eye-lashes,  and  it  gave  her  a 
sharp  pain  above  her  eyes  when  she  put  her  hand  up  to 
her  face. 

Gusta  had  now  reached  the  poorer  quarter  of  the 
town,  which  was  not  far  from  Claybourne  Avenue, 


i8        THE  TURN   OF   THE   BALANCE 

though  hidden  from  it.  The  houses  were  huddled 
closely  together,  and  their  little  window-panes  were 
frosty  against  the  light  that  shone  through  the  holes  in 
their  shades.  There  were  many  saloons,  as  many  as 
three  on  a  corner;  the  ice  was  frozen  about  their  en- 
trances, but  she  could  see  the  light  behind  the  screens. 
They  seemed  to  be  warm— the  only  places  in  that  neigh- 
borhood that  were  warm.  She  passed  one  of  them  just 
as  the  latch  clicked  and  the  door  opened,  and  three 
young  men  came  out,  laughing  loud,  rough,  brutal 
laughs.  Gusta  shrank  to  the  edge  of  the  sidewalk; 
when  she  got  into  the  black  shadow  of  the  low  frame 
building,  she  ran,  and  as  she  ran  she  could  hear  the 
young  men  laughing  loudly  behind  her.  She  plunged 
on  into  the  shadows  that  lay  so  thick  and  black  ahead. 
But  as  she  drew  near  her  home,  all  of  Gusta's  other 
thoughts  were  swallowed  up  in  the  thought  of  her  fa- 
ther. She  forgot  how  cold  she  was ;  her  fingers  were 
numb,  but  they  no  longer  ached ;  a  kind  of  physical  in- 
sensibility stole  through  her,  but  she  was  more  than 
ever  alive  mentally  to  the  anguish  that  was  on  her.  She 
thought  of  her  father,  and  she  remembered  a  thousand 
little  things  about  him,— all  his  ways,  all  his  sayings, 
little  incidents  of  her  childhood ;  and  the  tears  blinded 
her,  because  now  he  probably  would  never  speak  to  her 
again,  never  open  his  eyes  to  look  on  her  again.  She 
pictured  him  lying  on  his  bed,  broken  and  maimed, 
probably  covered  with  blood,  gasping  his  few  last 
breaths.  She  broke  into  a  little  run,  the  clumsy  trot 
of  a  woman,  her  skirts  beating  heavily  and  with  dull 
noises  against  her  legs,  her  shoes  crunching,  crunching, 
on  the  frozen  snow.  At  last  she  turned  another  corner, 
and  entered  a  street  that  was  even  narrower  and  darker 


JHE  TURN   OF  THE   BALANCE        19 

than  the  others.  Its  surface,  though  hidden  by  the 
snow,  was  billowy  where  the  ash  piles  lay ;  there  was  no 
light,  but  the  snow  seemed  to  give  a  gray  effect  to  the 
darkness.  This  was  Bolt  Street,  in  which  Gusta's  fam- 
ily, the  Koerners,  lived. 

The  thin  crackled  shade  was  down  at  the  front  win- 
dow, but  the  light  shone  behind  it.  Gusta  pushed  open 
the  front  door  and  rushed  in.  She  took  in  the  front 
room  at  a  glance,  seeking  the  evidence  of  change ;  but 
all  was  unchanged,  familiar — ^the  strips  of  rag  carpet 
on  the  floor,  the  cheap  oak  furniture  upholstered  in 
green  and  red  plush,  the  rough,  coarse-grained  surface 
of  the  wood  varnished  highly ;  the  photograph  of  her- 
self in  the  white  dress  and  veil  she  had  worn  to  her 
first  communion,  the  picture  of  Archie  sent  from  the 
Presidio,  the  colored  prints  of  Bismarck  and  the  battle 
of  Sedan — ^all  were  there.  The  room  was  just  as  it  had 
always  been,  clean,  orderly,  unused — save  that  some 
trinkets  Archie  had  brought  from  Manila  were  on  the 
center-table  beside  the  lamp,  which,  with  its  round 
globe  painted  with  brown  flowers,  gave  the  room  its 
light. 

Gusta  had  taken  all  this  in  with  a  little  shock  of 
surprise,  and  in  the  same  instant  the  children,  Katie 
and  little  Jakie,  sprang  forth  to  meet  her.  They  stood 
now,  clutching  at  her  skirts;  they  held  up  their  little 
red,  chapped  faces,  all  dirty  and  streaked  with  tears; 
their  lips  quivered,  and  they  began  to  whimper.  But 
Gusta,  with  her  wild  eyes  staring  above  their  little 
flaxen  heads,  pressed  on  in,  and  the  children,  hanging 
on  to  her  and  impeding  her  progress,  began  to  cry 
peevishly. 

Gusta  saw  her  mother  sitting  in  the  kitchen.   Two 


20        THE   TURN   OF   THE   BALANCE 

women  of  the  neighborhood  sat  near  her,  dull,  silent, 
stupid,  their  chins  on  their  huge  breasts,  as  if  in  melan- 
cholia. Though  the  room  was  stiflingly  warm  with  the 
heat  from  the  kitchen  stove,  the  women  kept  their 
shawls  over  their  heads,  like  peasants.  Mrs.  Koerner 
sat  in  a  rocking-chair  in  the  middle  of  her  clean  white 
kitchen  floor.  As  she  lifted  her  dry  eyes  and  saw  Gusta, 
her  brows  contracted  under  her  thin,  carefully-parted 
hair,  and  she  lifted  her  brawny  arms,  bare  to  the  el- 
bows, and  rocked  backward,  her  feet  swinging  heavily 
off  the  floor. 

"Where's  father  ?"  Gusta  demanded,  starting  toward 
her  mother. 

Mrs.  Koerner's  lips  opened  and  she  drew  a  long 
breath,  then  exhaled  it  in  a  heavy  sigh. 

"Where  is  he?"  Gusta  demanded  again.  She  spoke 
so  fiercely  that  the  children  suddenly  became  silent, 
their  pale  blue  eyes  wide.  One  of  the  neighbors  looked 
up,  unwrapped  her  bare  arms  from  her  gingham  apron 
and  began  to  poke  the  kitchen  fire.  Mrs.  Koerner  sud- 
denly bent  forward,  her  elbows  on  her  knees,  her  chin 
in  her  hands,  and  began  to  cry,  and  to  mumble  in  (jer- 
man.  At  this,  the  two  neighbor  women  began  to  speak 
to  each  other  in  German.  It  always  irritated  Gusta  to 
have  her  mother  speak  in  German.  She  had  learned  the 
language  in  her  infancy,  but  she  grew  ashamed  of  it 
when  she  was  sent  to  the  public  schools,  and  never 
spoke  it  when  she  could  help  it.  And  now  in  her  re- 
sentment of  the  whole  tragic  situation,  she  flew  into  a 
rage.  Her  mother  threw  her  apron  over  her  face,  and 
rocked  back  and  forth. 

"Aw,  quit,  ma !"  cried  Gusta ;  "quit,  now,  can't  you?" 

Mrs.  Koerner  took  her  apron  from  her  face  and 


THE  TURN   OF  THE   BALANCE        21 

I 
looked  at  Gusta.  Her  expression  was  one  of  mute  ap- 
pealing pain.  Gusta,  softened,  put  her  hand  on  her 
mother's  head. 

"Tell  me,  ma,"  she  said  softly,  "where  is  he?" 

Mrs.  Koerner  rocked  again,  back  and  forth,  flinging 
up  her  arms  and  shaking  her  head  from  side  to  side. 
A  fear  seized  Gusta. 

"Where  is  he  ?"  she  demanded. 

"He  goes  on  der  hospital,"  said  one  of  the  women. 
"He's  bad  hurt." 

The  word  "hospital"  seemed  to  have  a  profound  and 
sinister  meaning  for  Mrs.  Koerner,  and  she  began  to 
wail  aloud.  Gusta  feared  to  ask  more.  The  children 
were  still  clinging  to  her.  They  hung  to  her  skirts, 
tried  to  grasp  her  legs,  almost  toppling  her  over. 

"Want  our  supper!"  Jakie  cried;  "want  our  sup- 
perl" 

"Gusta,"  said  Katie,  "did  the  pretty  lady  send  me 
something  good  ?" 

Gusta  still  stood  there ;  her  cheeks  were  glowing  red 
from  their  exposure  to  the  wind  that  howled  outside 
and  rattled  the  loose  sash  in  the  window.  But  about 
her  bluish  lips  the  skin  was  white,  her  blue  eyes  were 
tired  and  frightened.  She  dropped  a  hand  to  each  of 
the  children,  her  knees  trembled,  and  she  gave  little 
lurches  from  side  to  side  as  she  stood  there,  with  the 
children  tugging  at  her,  in  their  fear  and  hunger. 

"Where's  Archie  ?"  she  asked. 

"He's  gone  for  his  beer,"  said  one  of  the  neighbors, 
the  one  who  had  not  spoken.  As  she  spoke  she  revealed 
her  loose  teeth,  standing  wide  apart  in  her  gums. 
"Maybe  he  goes  on  der  hospital  yet." 

Every  time  they  spoke  the  word  "hospital,"  Mrs, 


22        THE   TURN   OF   THE   BALANCE 

Koerner  flung  up  her  arms,  and  Gusta  herself  winced. 
But  she  saw  that  neither  her  mother  nor  these  women 
who  had  come  in  to  sit  with  her  could  tell  her  anything ; 
to  learn  the  details  she  would  have  to  wait  until  Archie 
came.  She  had  been  drawing  off  her  gloves  as  she 
stood  there,  and  now  she  laid  aside  her  hat  and  her 
jacket,  and  tied  on  one  of  her  mother's  aprons.  Then 
silently  she  went  to  work,  opened  the  stove  door,  shook 
the  ashes  down,  threw  in  coal,  and  got  out  a  skillet. 
The  table  spread  with  its  red  cloth  stood  against  the 
window-sill,  bearing  cream  pitcher  and  sugar  bowl, 
and  a  cheap  glass  urn  filled  with  metal  spoons.  She 
went  to  the  pantry,  brought  out  a  crock  of  butter  and 
put  it  on  the  table,  then  cut  pieces  of  side-meat  and 
put  them  in  a  skillet,  where  they  began  to  swim  about 
and  sizzle  in  the  sputtering  grease.  Then  she  set  the 
coffee  to  boil,  cut  some  bread,  and,  finding  some  cold 
potatoes  left  over  from  dinner,  she  set  these  on  the 
table  for  the  supper.  It  grew  still,  quiet,  commonplace. 
Gusta  bustled  about,  her  mother  sat  there  quietly,  the 
neighbors  looked  on  stolidly,  the  children  snuffled  now 
and  then.  The  tragedy  seemed  remote  and  unreal. 
;'  Gusta  took  a  pail  and  whisked  out  of  the  kitchen 
door ;  the  wind  rushed  in,  icy  cold ;  she  was  back  in  a 
moment,  her  golden  hair  blowing.  She  poured  some  of 
the  water  into  a  pan,  and  called  the  children  to  her. 
They  stood  as  stolidly  as  the  women  sat,  their  hands 
rigid  by  their  sides,  their  chins  elevated,  gasping  now 
and  then  as  Gusta  washed  their  dirty  faces  with  the 
rag  she  had  wrung  out  in  the  icy  water.  The  odor  of 
frying  pork  was  now  filling  the  room,  and  the  children's 
Ted,  burnished  faces  were  gleaming  with  smiles,  and 
their  blue  eyes  danced  as  they  stood  looking  at  the  hot 


THE  TURN   OF  THE   BALANCE        23 

stove.  When  the  pork  was  fried,  Gusta,  using  her 
apron  to  protect  her  hand,  seized  the  skillet  from  the 
stove,  scraped  the  spluttering  contents  into  a  dish  and 
set  it  on  the  table.  Then  the  children  climbed  into 
chairs,  side  by  side,  clutching  the  edge  of  the  table 
with  their  little  fingers.  Mrs.  Koerner  let  Gusta  draw 
up  her  rocking-chair,  leaned  over,  resting  her  fat  fore- 
arms on  the  table,  holding  her  fork  in  her  fist,  and  ate, 
using  her  elbow  as  a  fulcrum. 

When  the  meal  was  done,  Mrs.  Koerner  began  to 
rock  again,  the  children  stood  about  and  watched  Gusta 
pile  the  dishes  on  the  table  and  cover  them  with  the  red 
cloth,  and  then,  when  she  told  them  they  must  go  to 
bed,  they  protested,  crying  that  father  had  not  come 
home  yet.  Their  eyes  were  heavy  and  their  flaxen  heads 
were  nodding,  and  Gusta  dragged  them  into  a  room 
that  opened  off  the  kitchen,  and  out  of  the  dark  could 
be  heard  their  small  voices,  protesting  sleepily  that 
they  were  not  sleepy. 

After  a  while  a  quick,  regular  step  was  heard  out- 
side, some  one  stamped  the  snow  from  his  boots,  the 
door  opened,  and  Archie  entered.  His  face  was  drawn 
and  flaming  from  the  cold,  and  there  was  shrinking  in 
his  broad  military  shoulders ;  a  shiver  ran  through  his 
well-set-up  figure ;  he  wore  no  overcoat ;  he  keenly  felt 
the  exposure  to  weather  he  was  so  unused  to.  He  flung 
aside  his  gray  felt  soldier's  hat — the  same  he  had  worn 
in  the  Philippines — strode  across  the  room,  bent  over 
the  stove  and  warmed  his  red  fingers. 

"It's  a  long  hike  over  to  the  hospital  this  cold  night," 
he  said,  turning  to  Gusta  and  smiling.  His  white  teeth 
showed  in  his  smile,  and  the  skin  of  his  face  was  red 
and  parched.    He  flung  a  chair  before  the  stove,  sat 


24        THE   lURN   OF  THE   BALANCE 

down,  hooked  one  heel  on  its  rung,  and  taking  some 
little  slips  of  rice  paper  from  his  pocket,  and  a  bag  of 
.tobacco,  began  rolling  himself^  cigarette.  He  rolled 
the  cigarette  swiftly  and  deftly,  lighted  it,  and  inhaled 
the  smoke  eagerly.  Gusta,  meanwhile,  sat  looking  at 
him  in  a  sort  of  suppressed  impatience.  Then,  the 
smoke  steaHng  from  his  mouth  with  each  word  he 
uttered,  he  said : 

"Well,  they Ve  cut  the  old  man's  leg  off." 

Gusta  and  the  neighbor  women  looked  at  Archie  in 
silence.  Mrs.  Koerner  seemed  unable  to  grasp  the  full 
meaning  of  what  he  had  said. 

"Was  sagst  du?"  she  asked,  leaning  forward  anx- 
iously. 

''Sie  haben  sein  Bein  amputiert"  replied  Archie. 

''Sein  Bein — was?"  inquired  Mrs.  Koerner. 

"What  the  devil's  *cut  off'  ?"  asked  Archie,  turning 
to  Gusta. 

She  thought  a  moment. 

"Why,"  she  said,  "let's  see.  Ahgeschnitten,  I  guess." 

"Je's,"  said  Archie  impatiently,  "I  wish  she'd  cut 
out  the  Dutch  1" 

Then  he  turned  toward  his  mother  and  speaking 
loudly,  as  if  she  were  deaf,  as  one  always  speaks  who 
tries  to  make  himself  understood  in  a  strange  tongue : 

''Sie  haben  sein  Bein  ahgeschnitten — die  Doctoren 
im  Hospital." 

Mrs.  Koerner  stared  at  her  son,  and  Archie  and 
Gusta  and  the  two  women  sat  and  stared  at  her,  then 
suddenly  Mrs.  Koerner's  expression  became  set,  mean- 
ingless and  blank,  her  eyes  slowly  closed  and  her  body 
slid  off  the  chair  to  the  floor.  Archie  sprang  toward 
her  and  tried  to  lift  her.   She  was  heavy  even  for  his 


THE   TURN   OF  THE  BALANCE        25 

strong  arms,  and  He  straightened  an  instant,  and 
shouted  out  commands : 

"Open  the  door,  you!  Gusta,  get  some  water!" 

One  of  the  women  lumbered  across  the  kitchen  and 
flung  wide  the  door,  Gusta  got  a  dipper  of  water  and 
splashed  it  in  her  mother's  face.  The  cold  air  rushing 
into  the  overheated  kitchen  and  the  cool  water  revived 
the  prostrate  woman ;  she  opened  her  eyes  and  looked 
up,  sick  and  appealing.  Archie  helped  her  to  her  chair 
and  stood  leaning  over  her.  Gusta,  too,  bent  above  her, 
and  the  two  women  pressed  close. 

"Stand  back!"  shouted  Archie  peremptorily.  "Give 
her  some  air,  can't  you  ?" 

The  two  women  slunk  back — ^not  without  glances  of 
reproach  at  Archie.  He  stood  looking  at  his  mother  a 
moment,  his  hands  resting  on  his  hips.  He  was  still 
smoking  his  cigarette,  tilting  back  his  head  and  squint- 
ing his  eyes  to  escape  the  smoke.  Gusta  was  fanning 
her  mother. 

"Do  you  feel  better  ?"  she  asked  solicitously. 

"J a!*  said  Mrs.  Koemer,  but  she  began  to  shake  her 
head. 

"Oh,  it's  all  right,  ma,"  Archie  assured  her.  "It's 
the  best  place  for  him.  Why,  they'll  give  him  good 
care  there,  I  was  in  the  hospital  a  month  already  in 
Luzon." 

The  old  woman  was  unconvinced  and  shook  her 
head.  Then  Archie  stepped  close  to  her  side. 

"Poor  old  mother!"  he  said,  and  he  touched  her 
brow  lightly,  caressingly.  She  looked  at  him  an  instant, 
then  turned  her  head  against  him  and  cried.  The  tears 
began  to  roll  down  Gusta's  cheeks,  and  Archie 
squinted  his  eyes  more  and  more. 


2!^        THE   TURN   OF   THE   BALANCE 

"We'd  better  get  her  to  bed,"  he  said  softly,  and 
glanced  at  the  two  women  with  a  look  of  dismissal. 
They  still  sat  looking  on  at  this  effect  of  the  disaster, 
not  altogether  curiously  nor  without  sympathy,  yet 
claiming  all  the  sensation  they  could  get  out  of  the 
situation.  When  Archie  and  Gusta  led  Mrs.  Koerner 
to  her  bed,  the  two  women  began  talking  rapidly  to 
each  other  in  German,  criticizing  Archie  and  the  ac- 
tion of  the  authorities  in  taking  Koerner  to  the  hospital. 


m 


Gusta  cherisHed  a  hope  of  going  back  to  the  Wards', 
but  as  the  days  went  by  this  hope  dedined.  Mrs.  Koer- 
ner  was  mentally  prostrated  and  Gusta  was  needed  now 
at  home,  and  there  she  took  up  her  duties,  attending 
the  children,  getting  the  meals,  caring  for  the  house, 
filling  her  mother's  place.  After  a  few  days  she  re- 
luctantly decided  to  go  back  for  her  clothes.  The 
weather  had  moderated,  the  snow  still  lay  on  the 
ground,  but  grimy,  soft  and  disintegrating.  The  sky 
was  gray  and  cold,  the  mean  east  wind  was  blowing  in 
from  the  lake,  and  yet  Gusta  liked  its  cool  touch  on  her 
face,  and  was  glad  to  be  out  again  after  all  those  days 
she  had  been  shut  in  the  little  home.  It  was  good  to 
feel  herself  among  other  people,  to  get  back  to  normal 
life,  and  though  Gusta  did  not  analyze  her  sensations 
thus  closely,  or,  for  that  matter,  analyze  them  at  all, 
she  was  all  the  more  happy. 

Before  Nussbaum's  saloon  she  saw  the  long  beer 
wagon ;  its  splendid  Norman  horses  tossing  their  heads 
playfully,  the  stout  driver  in  his  leathern  apron  lug- 
ging in  the  kegs  of  beer.  The  sight  pleased  her ;  and 
when  Nussbaum,  in  white  shirt-sleeves  and  apron, 
stepped  to  the  door  for  his  breath  of  morning  air,  she 
smiled  and  nodded  to  him.  His  round  ruddy  face 
beamed  pleasantly. 

"Hello,  Gustie,"  he  called.  "How  are  you  this  morn- 
ing? How's  your  father?" 

27 


28        THE   TURN   OF   THE   BALANCE 

"Oh,  he's  better,  thank  you,  Mr.  Nussbaum,"  replied 
Gusta,  and  she  hastened  on.  As  she  went,  she  heard 
the  driver  of  the  brewery  wagon  ask : 

"Who's  that?" 

And  Nussbaum  replied : 

"Reinhold  Koerner's  girl,  what  got  hurt  on  the  raiU 
road  the  other  day." 

"She's  a  good-looker,  hain't  she?"  said  the  driver. 

And  Gusta  colored  and  felt  proud  and  happier  than 
before. 

She  was  not  long  in  reaching  Claybourne  Avenue, 
and  it  was  good  to  see  the  big  houses  again,  and  the 
sleighs  coursing  by,  and  the  carriages,  and  the  drivers 
and  footmen,  some  of  whom  she  knew,  sitting  so  stiffly 
in  their  liveries  on  the  boxes.  At  sight  of  the  familiar 
roof  and  chimneys  of  the  Wards'  house,  her  heart 
leaped ;  she  felt  now  as  if  she  were  getting  back  home. 

It  was  Gusta's  notion  that  as  soon  as  she  had  greeted 
her  old  friend  Mollie,  the  cook,  she  would  rush  on  into 
the  dining-room ;  but  no  sooner  was  she  in  the  kitchen 
than  she  felt  a  constraint,  and  sank  down  weakly  on  a 
chair.  Molly  was  busy  with  luncheon ;  things  were  go- 
ing on  in  the  Ward  household,  going  on  just  as  well 
without  her  as  with  her,  just  as  the  car  shops  were  go- 
ing on  without  her  father,  the  whistle  blowing  night 
and  morning.  It  gave  Gusta  a  little  pang.  This  feeling 
was  intensified  when,  a  little  later,  a  girl  entered  the 
kitchen,  a  thin  girl,  with  black  hair  and  blue  eyes  with 
long  Irish  lashes.  She  would  have  been  called  pretty 
by  anybody  but  Gusta,  and  Gusta  herself  must  have  al- 
lowed her  prettiness  in  any  moment  less  sharp  than  this. 
The  new  maid  inspected  Gusta  coldly,  but  none  of  the 
glances  from  her  eyes  could  hurt  Gusta  half  as  much  as 


THE  TURN   OF  THE   BALANCE        29 

her  presence  there  hurt  her ;  and  the  hurt  was  so  deep 
that  she  felt  no  personal  resentment ;  she  regarded  the 
maid  merely  as  a  situation,  an  unconscious  and  irre- 
sponsible symbol  of  certain  untoward  events. 

^'Want  to  see  Mrs.  Ward  ?"  the  maid  inquired. 

"Yes,  and  Miss  Elizabeth,  too,"  said  Gusta. 

"Mrs.  Ward's  out  and  Miss  Ward's  busy  just  now." 

Mollie,  whose  broad  back  was  bent  over  her  table, 
knew  how  the  words  hurt  Gusta,  and,  without  turning, 
she  said : 

"You  go  tell  her  Gusta's  here,  Nora ;  she'll  want  to 
see  her.** 

"Oh,  sure,*'  said  Nora,  yielding  to  a  superior.  "I'll 
tell  her.** 

Almost  before  Nora  could  return,  Elizabeth  stood 
in  the  swinging  door,  beaming  her  surprise  and  pleas- 
ure. And  Gusta  burst  into  tears. 

"Why  Gusta,'*  exclaimed  Elizabeth,  "come  right  in 
here!'* 

She  held  the  door,  and  Gusta,  with  a  glance  at  Nora, 
went  in.  Seated  by  the  window  in  the  old  familiar  din- 
ing-room, with  Elizabeth  before  her,  Gusta  glanced 
about,  the  pain  came  back,  and  the  tears  rolled  down 
her  cheeks. 

"You  mustn't  cry,  Gusta,**  said  Elizabeth. 

Gusta  sat  twisting  her  fingers  together,  in  and  out, 
while  the  tears  fell.  She  could  not  speak  for  a  mo- 
ment, and  then  she  looked  up  and  tried  to  smile. 

"You  mustn't  cry,"  Elizabeth  repeated.  "You  aren't 
half  so  pretty  when  you  cry.** 

Gusta*s  wet  lashes  were  winking  rapidly,  and  she 
took  out  her  handkerchief  and  wiped  her  face  and  her 
eyes,  and  Elizabeth  looked  at  her  intently. 


30        THE  TURN   OF   THE   BALANCE 

"Poor  child!"  she  said  presently.  "What  a  time 
you've  had!" 

"Oh,  Miss  Elizabeth!"  said  Gusta,  the  tears  starting 
afresh  at  this  expression  of  sympathy,  "we've  had  a 
dreadful  time !" 

"And  we've  missed  you  awfully,"  said  Elizabeth. 
"When  are  you  coming  back  to  us  ?" 

Gusta  looked  up  gratefully.  "I  don't  know,  Miss 
Elizabeth ;  I  wish  I  did.  But  you  see  my  mother  is  sick 
ever  since  father — " 

"And  how  is  your  father  ?  We  saw  in  the  newspaper 
how  badly  he  had  been  hurt." 

"Was  it  in  the  paper?"  said  Gusta  eagerly,  leaning 
forward  a  little. 

"Yes,  didn't  you  see  it?  It  was  just  a  little  item;  it 
gave  few  of  the  details,  and  it  must  have  misspelled — " 
But  Elizabeth  stopped. 

"I  didn't  see  it,"  said  Gusta.  "He  was  hurt  dread- 
fully, Miss  Elizabeth ;  they  cut  his  leg  off  at  the  hos- 
pital." 

"Oh,  Gusta !  And  he's  there  still,  of  course  ?" 

"Yes,  and  we  don't  know  how  long  he'll  have  to 
stay.  Maybe  he'll  have  to  go  under  another  operation." 

"Oh,  I  hope  not!"  said  Elizabeth.  "Tell  me  how  he 
was  hurt." 

"Well,  Miss  Elizabeth,  we  don't  just  know — not  just 
exactly.  He  had  knocked  off  work  and  left  the  shops 
and  was  coming  across  the  yards — he  always  comes 
home  that  way,  you  know — but  it  was  dark,  and  the 
snow  was  all  over  everything,  and  the  ice,  and  somehow 
he  slipped  and  caught  his  foot  in  a  frog,  and  just  then 
a  switch-engine  came  along  and  ran  over  his  leg." 


THE  TURN   OF  THE  BALANCE        31 

"Oh,  horrible!"  Elizabeth's  brows  contracted  in 
pain. 

"The  ambulance  took  him  right  away  to  the  hospi- 
tal. Ma  felt  awful  bad  'cause  they  wouldn't  let  him  be 
fetched  home.  She  didn't  want  him  taken  to  the  hos- 
pital." 

"But  that  was  the  best  place  for  him,  Gusta;  the 
very  best  place  in  the  world." 

"That's  what  Archie  says,"  said  Gusta,  "but  ma 
doesn't  like  it ;  she  can't  get  used  to  it,  and  she  says — " 
Gusta  hesitated, — "she  says  we  can't  afford  to  keep  him 
there.'* 

"But  the  railroad  will  pay  for  that,  won't  it  ?" 

"Oh,  do  you  think  it  will,  Miss  Elizabeth?  It  had 
ought  to,  hadn't  it?  He's  worked  there  thirty-seven 
years." 

"Why,  surely  it  will,"  said  Elizabeth.  "I  wouldn't 
worry  about  that  a  minute  if  I  were  you.  You  must 
make  the  best  of  it.  And  is  there  anything  I  can  do 
for  you,  Gusta?" 

"No,  thank  you.  Miss  Elizabeth.  I  just  came  around 
to  see  you," — she  looked  up  with  a  fond  smile, — "and 
to  get  my  clothes.  Then  I  must  go.  I  want  to  go  see 
father  before  I  go  back  home.  I  guess  I'll  pack  my 
things  now,  and  then  Archie'll  come  for  my  trunk  this 
afternoon." 

"Oh,  I'll  have  Barker  haul  it  over;  he  can  just  as 
well  as  not.  And,  Gusta," — Elizabeth  rose  on  the  im- 
pulse— "I'll  drive  you  to  the  hospital.  I  was  just  go- 
ing out.  You  wait  here  till  I  get  my  things." 

Gusta's  face  flushed  with  pleasure;  she  poured  out 
her  thanks,  and  tRen  she  >vaited  while  Elizabeth  rang 


32        THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

for  the  carriage,  and  ran  out  to  prepare  for  the  street, 
just  as  she  used  to. 

It  was  a  fine  thing  for  Gusta  to  ride  with  Elizabeth 
in  her  brougham.  She  had  often  imagined  how  it 
would  be,  sitting  there  in  the  exclusion  of  the 
brougham's  upholstered  interior,  with  the  little  clock, 
and  the  mirror  and  the  bottle  of  salts  before  her,  and 
the  woven  silk  tube  through  which  Elizabeth  spoke 
to  Barker  when  she  wished  to  give  him  directions. 
The  drive  to  the  hospital  was  all  too  short  for  Gusta, 
even  though  Elizabeth  prolonged  it  by  another  impulse 
which  led  her  to  drive  out  of  their  way  to  get  some 
fruit  and  some  flowers. 

In  the  street  before  the  hospital,  and  along  the 
driveway  that  led  to  the  suggestively  wide  side  door, 
carriages  were  being  slowly  driven  up  and  down,  de- 
noting that  the  social  leaders  who  were  patronesses  of 
the  hospital  were  now  inside,  patronizing  the  superin- 
tendent and  the  head  nurse.  Besides  these  there  were 
the  high,  hooded  phaetons  of  the  fashionable  physi- 
cians. It  was  the  busy  hour  at  the  hospital.  The  nurses 
had  done  their  morning  work,  made  their  entries  on 
their  charts,  and  were  now  standing  in  little  groups 
about  the  hall,  waiting  for  their  "cases'*  to  come  back 
from  the  operating-rooms.  There  was  the  odor  of 
anesthetics  in  the  air,  and  the  atmosphere  of  the  place, 
professional  and  institutional  though  it  was,  was  sur- 
charged with  a  heavy  human  suspense— the  suspense 
that  hung  over  the  silent,  heavily  breathing,  anesthet- 
ized human  forms  that  were  stretched  on  glass  tables 
in  the  hot  operating-rooms  up-stairs,  some  of  them 
doomed  to  die,  others  to  live  and  prolong  existence  yet 
a  while.  The  wide  slow  elevators  were  waiting  at  the 


THE  TURN  OE  THE   BALANCE        33 

top  floor ;  at  the  doors  of  the  operating-rooms  stood  ^^' 
the  white-padded  rubber-tired  carts,  the  orderlies  sit- 
ting on  them  swinging  their  legs  off  the  floor,  and 
gossiping  about  the  world  outside,  where  life  did  not 
hover,  but  throbbed  on,  intent,  preoccupied.  In  private 
rooms,  in  vacant  rooms,  in  the  office  down-stairs,  men 
and  women,  the  relatives  of  those  on  the  glass  tables 
above,  waited  with  white,  haggard,  frightened  faces. 

As  Elizabeth  and  Gusta  entered  the  hospital  they 
shuddered,  and  drew  close  to  each  other  like  sisters. 
Koerner  was  in  the  marine  ward,  and  Gusta  dreaded 
the  place.  On  her  previous  visits  there,  the  nurses  had 
been  sharp  and  severe  with  her,  but  this  morning, 
when  the  nurses  saw  Elizabeth  bearing  her  basket  ol 
fruit  and  her  flowers — which  she  would  not  let  Gusta 
carry,  feeling  that  would  rob  her  offering  of  the  per* 
sonal  quality  she  wished  it  to  assume — they  ran  for- 
ward, their  starched,  striped  blue  skirts  rustling,  and 
greeted  her  with  smiles. 

"Why,  Miss  Ward  r  they  cried. 

"Good  morning,"  said  Elizabeth,  "weVe  come  to  see 
Mr.  Koerner.** 

"Oh,  yes,**  said  Koerner *s  nurse,  a  tall,  spare  young 
woman  with  a  large  nose,  eye-glasses,  and  a  flat  chest. 
"He*s  so  much  better  this  morning.**  She  said  this 
with  a  patronizing  glance  aside  at  Gusta,  who  tried: 
to  smile ;  the  nurse  had  not  spoken  so  pleasantly  to  her 
before. 

The  nurse  led  the  girls  into  the  ward,  and  tKey- 
passed  down  between  the  rows  of  white  cots.  Some  of 
the  cots  were  empty,  their  white  sheets  folded  severely^ 
back,  awaiting  the  return  of  their  occupants  from  the 
xx)oms  up-stairs.     In  the  others  men  sprawled,  with 


34        THE  TURN  OF.  THE   BALANCE 

^^:'  pallid,  haggard  faces,  and  watched  the  young  women 
as  they  passed  along,  following:  them  with  large,  bril- 
liant, sick  eyes.  But  Elizabeth  and  Gusta  did  not  look 
at  them;  they  kept  their  eyes  before  them.  One  bed 
had  a  white  screen  about  it;  candles  glowed  through 
the  screen,  silhouetting  the  bending  forms  of  a  priest, 
a  doctor  and  a  nurse. 

Koerner  was  at  the  end  of  the  ward.  His  great, 
gaunt,  heavy  figure  was  supine  on  the  bed ;  the  band- 
aged stump  of  his  leg  made  a  heavy  bulk  under  the 
counterpane;  his  broad  shoulders  mashed  down  the 
pillow ;  his  enormous  hands,  still  showing  in  their 
cracks  and  crevices  and  around  the  cuticle  of  his 
broken  nails  the  grime  that  all  the  antiseptic  scrub- 
bings  of  a  hospital  could  not  remove,  lay  outside  the 
coverlid,  idle  for  the  first  time  in  half  a  century.  His 
white  hair  was  combed,  its  ragged  edges  showing 
more  obviously,  and  his  gaunt  cheeks  were  covered  by 
a  stubble  of  frosty  beard.  His  blue  eyes  were  unnatu- 
rally bright. 

Elizabeth  fell  back  a  little  that  Gusta  might  greet 
him  first,  and  the  strong,  lusty,  healthy  girl  bent  over 
her  father  and  laid  one  hand  on  his. 

"Well,  pa,  how 're  you  feeling  to-day?" 

"Hullo,  Gustie,"  said  the  old  man,  "you  gom'  again, 
huh  ?  Veil,  der  oldt  man's  pretty  bad,  I  tel'  you." 

"Why,  the  nurse  said  you  were  better." 

"Why,  yes,"  said  the  nurse,  stepping  forward  with 
a  professional  smile,  "he's  lots  better  this  morning; 
he  just  won't  admit  it,  that's  all.  But  we  know  him 
here,  we  do !" 

She  said  this  playfully,  with  a  lateral  addition  to  her 
3mile^  and  she  bent  over  and  passed  her  hand  under 


THE  TURN   OF  THE  BALANCE        35 

the  bed-clothes  and  touched  his  bandages  here  and 
there.  EHzabeth  and  Gusta  stood  looking  on. 

*Tsn*t  the  pain  any  better?"  asked  the  nurse,  still 
smilingly,  coaxingly. 

"Naw,"  growled  the  old  German,  stubbornly  re- 
fusing to  smile.  "I  toldt  you  it  was  no  besser, 
don^tl?" 

The  nurse  drew  out  her  hand.  The  smile  left  her 
face  and  she  stood  looking  down  on  him  with  a  help- 
less expression  that  spread  to  the  faces  of  Elizabeth 
and  Gusta.  Koerner  turned  his  head  uneasily  on  the 
pillow  and  groaned. 

"What  is  it,  pa  ?"  asked  Gusta. 

"Der  rheumatizV* 

"Where?" 

"In  my  leg.  In  der  same  oldt  blace.  Achf 

An  expression  of  puzzled  pain  came  to  Gusta's 
face. 

"Why,"  she  said  half-fearfully,  "how  can  it — now  ?" 
She  looked  at  the  nurse.  The  nurse  smiled  again,  this 
time  with  an  air  of  superior  knowledge. 

"They  often  have  those  sensations,"  she  said,  laugh- 
ing. "It's  quite  natural."  Then  she  bent  over  Koerner 
and  said  cheerily:  "I'm  going  now,  and  leave  you 
with  your  daughter  and  Miss  Ward." 

"Yes,  pa,"  said  Gusta,  "Miss  Elizabeth's  here  to  see 
you." 

She  put  into  her  tone  all  the  appreciation  of  the 
honor  she  wished  her  father  to  feel.  Elizabeth  came 
forward,  her  gloved  hands  folded  before  her,  and  stood 
carefully  away  from  the  bed  so  that  even  her  skirts 
should  not  touch  it.  ^ 

"How  do  you  do^,  Mr.  Koerner  ?"  she  said  in  her  soft 


30        THE   TURN  OF  THE   BALANCE 

i 

voice — so  diflfercnt  from  the  voices  of  the  nurse  and 
Gusta. 

Koerner  turned  and  looked  at  her  an  instant,  his 
mouth  open,  his  tongue  playing  over  his  discolored 
teeth. 

**Hullo,"  he  said,  "you  gom*  to  see  der  oldt  man, 
huh?" 

Elizabeth  smiled. 

"Yes,  I  came  to  see  how  you  were,  and  to  know  if 
there  is  anything  I  could  do  for  you." 

''Ach/'  he  said,  "I'm  all  right.  Dot  leg  he  hurts 
yust  der  same  efery  day.  Kesterday  dcr's  somet'ing 
between  der  toes;  dis  time  he's  got  der  damned  oldt 
rheumatiz',  yust  der  same  he  used  to  ven  he's  on  dere 
all  right." 

The  old  man  then  entered  into  a  long  description  of 
his  symptoms,  and  Elizabeth  tried  hard  to  smile  and  to 
sympathize.  She  succeeded  in  turning  him  from  his 
subject  presently,  and  then  she  said : 

"Is  there  anything  you  want,  Mr.  Koerner?  I'd  be 
so  glad  to  get  you  anything,  you  know." 

"Veil,  I  like  a  schmoke  alreadty,  but  she  won't  let 
me.  You  know  my  oldt  pipe,  Gusta?  Veil,  I  lose  him 
by  der  accident  dot  night.  He's  on  der  railroadt,  I  bet 
you." 

"Oh,  we'll  get  you  another  pipe,  Mr.  Koerner,"  said 
Elizabeth,  laughing.  "Isn't  there  anything  else  ?" 

"Naw,"  he  said,  "der  railroadt  gets  me  eferyt'ing. 
I  work  on  dot  roadt  t'irty-seven  year  now  a'readty. 
Dot  man,  dot — vat  you  call  him  ? — dot  glaim  agent,  he 
kum  here  kesterday,  undt  he  say  he  get  me  eferyt'ing. 
He's  a  fine  man,  dot  glaim  agent.  He  laugh  undt  choke 


i 


THE   TURN   OF   THE   BALANCE        37 

mit  me;  he  saidt  der  roadt  gif  me  chob  flaggin'  der 
grossing.  All  I  yust  do  is  to  sign  der  baper — " 

"Oh,  Mr.  Koerner,"  cried  Elizabeth  in  alarm,  and 
Gusta,  at  her  expression,  started  forward,  and  Koer- 
ner  himself  became  all  attention,  "you  did  not  sign 
any  paper,  did  you  ?" 

The  old  man  looked  at  her  an  instant,  and  then  a  soft 
shadowy  smile  touched  his  lips. 

"Don't  you  vorry,"  he  said ;  "der  oldt  man  only  got 
von  leg,  but  he  don't  sigp  no  damned  oldt  baper."  He 
shook  his  head  on  the  pillow  sagely,  and  then  added : 
"You  bet  r 

"That's  splendid!"  said  Elizabeth.  "You're  very 
wise,  Mr.  Koemer."  She  paused  and  thought  a  mo- 
ment, her  brows  knit.  Then  her  expression  cleared 
and  she  said: 

"You  must  let  me  send  a  lawyer." 

"Oh,  der  been  blenty  of  lawyers,"  said  Koemer. 

"Yes,"  laughed  Elizabeth,  "there  are  plenty  of  law- 
yers, to  be  sure,  but  I  mean — " 

"Der  been  more  as  a  dozen  here  alreadty,"  he  went 
on,  "but  dey  don't  let  'em  see  me." 

"I  don't  think  a  lawyer  who  would  come  to  sec  you 
would  be  the  kind  you  want,  Mr.  Koerner." 

"Dot's  all  right.  Der  been  blenty  of  time  for  der 
lawyers." 

"Oh,  pa,"  Gusta  put  in,  "you  must  take  Miss  Eliza- 
beth's advice.  She  knows  best.  She'll  send  you  a  good 
lawyer." 

"Veil,  ve  see  about  dot,"  said  Koemer. 

"I  presume,  Mr.  Koerner,"  said  Elizabeth,  "they 
wouldn't  let  a  lawyer  see  you,  but  I'll  bring  one  witK 


38        THE  TURN  OF  THE   BALANCE 

me  the  next  time  I  come — a  very  good  one,  one  that 
I  know  well,  and  he'll  advise  you  what  to  do ;  shall  I  ?" 

"Veil,  ve  see,"  said  Koerner. 

"Now,  pa,  you  must  let  Miss  Elizabeth  bring  a  law- 
yer," and  then  she  whispered  to  Elizabeth :  "You 
bring  one  anyway,  Miss  Elizabeth.  Don't  mind  what 
hie  says.  He's  always  that  way." 

Elizabeth  brought  out  her  flowers  and  fruit  then, 
and  Koerner  glanced  at  them  without  a  word,  or  with- 
out a  look  of  gratitude,  and  when  she  had  arranged 
the  flowers  on  his  little  table,  she  bade  him  good-by  and 
took  Gusta  with  her  and  went. 

As  they  passed  out,  the  white  rubber-tired  carts 
were  being  wheeled  down  the  halls,  the  patients  they 
bore  still  breathing  profoundly  under  the  anesthetics, 
from  which  it  was  hoped  they  would  awaken  in  their 
clean,  smooth  beds.  The  young  women  hurried  out, 
and  Elizabeth  drank  in  the  cool  wintry  air  eagerly. 

"Oh,  Gusta !"  she  said,  "this  air  is  delicious  after  that 
air  in  there !  I  shall  have  the  taste  of  it  for  days." 

"Miss  Elizabeth,  that  place  is  sickening!" — ^and 
Elizabeth  laughed  at  the  solemn  deliberation  with 
which  Gusta  lengthened  out  the  word. 


Elizabeth 


V 


"Come  in,  old  man."  Marriott  glanced  up  at  Dick 
Ward,  who  stood  smiling  in  the  doorway  of  his  private 
office. 

"Don't  let  me  interrupt  you,  my  boy,"  said  Dick  as 
he  entered. 

*7ust  a  minute,"  said  Marriott,  "and  then  I'm  with 
you."  Dick  dropped  into  the  big  leather  chair,  unbut- 
toned his  tan  overcoat,  arranged  its  skirts,  drew  off 
his  gloves,  and  took  a  silver  cigarette-case  from  his 
pocket.  Marriott,  swinging  about  in  his  chair,  asked 
his  stenographer  to  repeat  the  last  line,  picked  up  the 
thread,  went  on : 

"And  these  answering  defendants  further  say  that 
heretofore,  to  wit,  on  or  about — " 

Dick,  leaning  back  in  his  chair,  inhaling  the  smoke 
of  his  cigarette,  looked  at  the  girl  who  sat  beside 
Marriott's  desk,  one  leg  crossed  over  the  other,  the 
tip  of  her  patent-leather  boot  showing  beneath  her 
skirt,  on  her  knee  the  pad  on  which  she  wrote  in  short- 
hand. The  girl's  eyelashes  trembled  presently  and  a 
flush  showed  in  her  cheeks,  spreading  to  her  white 
throat  and  neck.  Dick  did  not  take  his  eyes  from  her. 
When  Marriott  finished,  the  girl  left  the  room  hur- 
riedly. 

"Well,  what's  the  news  ?"  asked  Marriott. 

"Devilish  fine-looking  girl  youVe  got  there,  old 
39 


40        THE  TURN   OF   THE   BALANCE 

man!"  said  Dick,  whose  eyes  had  followed  the  sten- 
ographer. 

"She's  a  good  girl,"  said  Marriott  simply. 

Dick  glanced  again  at  the  gfirl.  Through  the  open 
door  he  could  see  her  seating  herself  at  her  machine. 
Then  he  recalled  himself  and  turned  to  Marriott. 

"Say,  Bess  was  trying  to  get  you  by  'phone  this 
morning." 

"Is  that  so?"  said  Marriott  in  a  disappointed  tone. 
"I  was  in  court  all  morning." 

"Well,  she  said  she'd  give  it  up.  She  said  that  old 
man  Koerner  had  left  the  hospital  and  gone  home.  He 
sent  word  to  her  that  he  wanted  to  see  you." 

"Oh,  yes,"  Said  Marriott,  "about  that  case  of  his.  I 
must  attend  to  that,  but  I've  been  so  busy."  He 
glanced  at  his  disordered  desk,  with  its  hopeless  litter 
of  papers.  "Let's  see,"  he  went  on  meditatively,  "I 
guess" — he  thought  a  moment,  "I  guess  I  might  as 
well  go  out  there  this  afternoon  as  any  time.  How  far 
is  it?" 

"Oh,  it's  'way  out  on  Bolt  Street." 

"What  car  do  I  take?" 

"Colorado  Avenue,  I  think.  I'll  go  'long,  if  .you  want 
me." 

"I'll  be  delighted,"  said  Marriott.  He  thought  a  mo- 
ment longer,  then  closed  his  desk,  and  said,  "We'll  go 
now." 

When  they  got  off  the  elevator  twelve  floors  below, 
Dick  said : 

"I've  got  to  have  a  drink  before  I  start.  Will  you 
join  me  ?" 

"I  just  had  luncheon  a  while  ago,"  said  Marriott; 
"I  don't  really—" 


THE  TURN   OF  THE   BALANCE        41 

"I  never  got  to  bed  till  morning/*  said  Dick.  "I  sat 
in  a  little  game  at  the  club  last  night,  and  Fm 
all  in." 

Marriott,  amused  by  the  youth's  pride  in  his  dissi- 
pation, went  with  him  to  the  cafe  in  the  basement. 
Standing  before  the  polished  bar,  with  one  foot  on 
the  brass  rail,  Dick  said  to  the  white- jacketed  barten- 
der: 

"I  want  a  high-ball;  you  know  my  brand,  George. 
What's  yours,  Gordon  ?" 

"Oh,  ril  take  the  same."  Marriott  watched  Dick 
pour  a  generous  libation  over  the  ice  in  the  glass. 

"Don't  forget  the  imported  soda,"  added  Dick  with 
an  air  of  the  utmost  seriousness  and  importance,  and 
the  bartender,  swiftly  pulling  the  corks,  said : 

"I  wouldn't  forget  you,  Mr.  Ward." 

The  car  for  which  they  waited  in  the  drifting  crowd 
at  the  comer  was  half  an  hour  in  getting  them  out  to 
the  neighborhood  in  which  the  Koemers  lived.  They 
stood  on  the  rear  platform  all  the  way,  because,  as 
Dick  said,  he  had  to  smoke,  and  as  he  consumed  his 
cigarettes,  he  discoursed  to  Marriott  of  the  things 
that  filled  his  life — ^his  card  games  and  his  drinking 
at  the  club,  his  constant  attendance  at  theaters  and 
cafes.  His  cheeks  were  fresh  and  rosy  as  a  girl's,  and 
smooth  from  the  razor  they  did  not  need.  Mar- 
riott, as  he  looked  at  him,  saw  a  resemblance  to  Eliza- 
beth, and  this  gave  the  boy  an  additional  charm  for 
him.  He  studied  this  resemblance,  but  he  could  not 
analyze  it.  Dick  had  neither  his  sister's  features  nor 
her  complexion;  and  yet  the  resemblance  was  there, 
flitting,  remote,  revealing  itself  one  instant  to  disap-  j 
pear  the  next,  evading  and  eluding  him.  He  could  not  ' 


L 


42        THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE  ' 

account  for  it,  yet  its  effect  was  to  make  his  Heart 
warm  toward  the  boy,  to  make  him  love  him. 

Marriott  let  Dick  go  on  in  his  talk,  but  he  scarcely 
heard  what  the  boy  said ;  it  was  the  spirit  that  held  him 
and  charmed  him,  the  spirit  of  youth  launching  with 
ijublime  courage  into  life,  not  yet  aware  of  its  signifi- 
cance or  its  purpose.  He  thought  of  the  danger  the 
boy  was  in  and  longed  to  help  him.  How  was  he  to 
do  this  ?  Should  he  admonish  him  ?  No, — instantly  he 
recognized  the  fact  that  he  could  not  do  this;  he 
shrank  from  preaching ;  he  could  take  no  priggish  or 
Pharisaical  attitude ;  he  had  too  much  culture,  too  much 
imagination  for  that ;  besides,  he  reflected  with  a  shade 
of  guilt,  he  had  just  now  encouraged  Dick  by  drinking 
with  him.  He  flung  away  his  cigarette  as  if  it  sym- 
bolized the  problem,  and  sighed  when  he  thought  that 
Dick,  after  all,  would  have  to  make  his  way  alone 
and  fight  his  own  battles,  that  the  soul  can  emerge  into 
real  life  only  through  the  pains  and  dangers  that  ac- 
company all  birth. 

Marriott's  knock  at  the  Koerners'  door  produced 
the  sensation  visits  make  where  they  are  infrequent,  but 
he  and  Dick  had  to  wait  before  the  vague  noises  died 
away  and  the  door  opened  to  them.  Mrs.  Koerner  led 
them  through  the  parlor — which  no  occasion  seemed 
ever  to  merit — to  the  kitchen  at  the  other  end  of  the 
house.  The  odor  of  catholic  acid  which  the  two  men 
had  detected  the  moment  they  entered,  grew  stronger 
as  they  approached  the  kitchen,  and  there  they  beheld 
Koerner,  the  stump  of  his  leg  bundled  in  surgical 
bandages,  resting  on  a  pillow  in  a  chair  before  him, 
His  position  constrained  him  not  to  move,  and  he  made 
no  attempt  to  turn  his  head ;  but  when  the  young  men 


fTHE   TURN   OF   THE   BALANCE        43 

stood  before  him,  he  raised  to  them  a  bronzed  and 
wrinkled  face.  His  white  hair  was  rumpled,  and  he 
wore  a  cross  and  dissatisfied  expression;  he  held  by  its 
bowl  the  new  meerschaum  pipe  Elizabeth  had  sent  him, 
and  waved  its  long  stem  at  Marriott  and  Dick,  as  he 
waved  it  scepter-like  in  ruling  his  household. 

**My  name  is  Marriott,  Mr.  Koerner,  and  this  is 
Mr.  Ward,  Miss  Elizabeth's  brother.  She  said  you 
wished  to  see  me." 

"You  gom',  huh  ?"  said  Koerner,  fixing  Marriott  with 
his  little  blue  eyes.  * 

"Yes,  I'm  here  at  last,"  said  Marriott.  "Did  you 
think  I  was  never  going  to  get  here?"  He  drew  up  a 
chair  and  sat  down.  Dick  took  another  chair,  but 
leaned  back  and  glanced  about  the  room,  as  if  to  tes- 
tify to  his  capacity  of  mere  spectator.  Mrs.  Koerner 
stood  beside  her  husband  and  folded  her  arms.  The 
two  children,  hidden  in  their  mother's  skirts,  cau- 
tiously emerged,  a  bit  at  a  time,  as  it  were,  until  they 
stood  staring  with  wide,  curious  blue  eyes  at  Marriott. 

"You  bin  a  lawyer,  yet,  huh?"  asked  Koerner  se- 
yerely. 

"Yes,  I'm  a  lawyer.  Miss  Ward  said  you  wished  to 
see  a  lawyer."  * 

"I've  blenty  lawyers  alreadty,"  said  Koerner.  "Der 
bin  more  as  a  dozen  hier."  He  waved  his  pipe  at  the 
clock-shelf,  where  a  little  stack  of  professional  cards 
told  how  many  lawyers  had  solicited  Koerner  as  a 
client.  Marriott  could  have  told  the  names  of  the  law- 
yers without  looking  at  their  cards. 

"Have  you  retained  any  of  them?"  asked  Mar- 
riott. 

"Huh  ?"  asked  Koerner,  scowling. 


44        THE  TURN   OF  THE   BALANCE 

"Did  you  hire  any  of  them  ?'* 

"No,  I  tell  'em  all  to  go  to  hell." 

"That's  where  most  of  them  are  going,"  said  Mar- 
riott. 

But  Koerner  did  not  see  the  joke. 

"How's  your  injury?"  asked  Marriott. 

Koerner  winced  perceptibly  at  Marriott's  mere 
glance  at  his  amputated  leg,  and  stretched  the  pipe- 
stem  over  it  as  if  in  protection. 

"He's  hurt  like  hell,"  he  said. 

"Why,  hasn't  the  pain  left  yet?"  asked  Marriott  in 
surprise. 

"No,  I  got  der  rheumatiz'  in  dot  foot,"  he  pointed 
with  his  pipe-stem  at  the  vacancy  where  the  foot  used 
to  be. 

**That  foot!"  exclaimed  Marriott. 

"Bess  told  us  of  that,"  Dick  put  in.  "It  gave  her 
the  willies." 

"Well,  I  should  think  so,"  said  Marriott. 

Koerner  looked  from  one  to  the  other  of  the  two 
young  men. 

"That's  funny,  Mr.  Koerner,"  said  Marriott,  "that 
foot's  cut  off." 

"I  wish  der  tamn  doctors  cut  off  der  rheumatiz'  der 
same  time!  Dey  cut  off  der  foot  all  right,  but  dey 
leave  der  rheumatiz'."  He  turned  the  long  stem  of  his 
pipe  to  his  lips  and  puffed  at  it,  and  looked  at  the  leg 
as  if  he  were  taking  up  a  problem  he  was  working  on 
daily. 

"Well,  now,  Mr.  Koerner,"  said  Marriott  presently, 
"tell  me  how  it  happened  and  I'll  see  if  I  can  help 
you." 

Koerner,  just  on  the  point  of  placing  his  pipe-stem 


THE  TURN   OF  THE   BALANCE        45 

between  his  long,  loose,  yellow  teeth,  stopped  and 
looked  intently  at  Marriott.  Marriott  saw  at  once  from 
his  expression  that  he  had  once  more  to  contend  with 
the  suspicion  the  poor  always  feel  when  dealing  with  a 
lawyer. 

"So  you  been  Mr.  Marriott,  huh  ?"  asked  Koerner. 

"Yes,  Vm  Marriott." 

"Der  lawyer?" 

"Yes,  the  lawyer." 

"You  der  one  vot  Miss  Ward  sent  alreadty,  aind't 
it?" 

"Yes,  Fm  the  one."  Marriott  smiled,  and  then, 
thinking  suddenly  of  an  incontrovertible  argument,  he 
waved  his  hand  at  Dick.  "This  is  her  brother.  She 
sent  him  to  bring  me  here." 

The  old  man  looked  at  Dick,  and  then  turned  to  Mar- 
riott again. 

"How  much  you  goin'  charge  me,  huh?"  His  little 
hard  blue  eyes  were  almost  closed. 

"Oh,  if  I  don't  get  any  damages  for  you,  I  won't 
charge  you  anything." 

The  old  man  made  him  repeat  this  several  times, 
and  when  at  last  he  understood,  he  seemed  relieved 
and  pleased.  And  then  he  wished  to  know  what  the 
fee  would  be  in  the  event  of  success. 

"Oh,"  said  Marriott,  "how  would  one-fifth  do?" 

Koerner,  when  he  grasped  the  idea  of  the  percentage, 
was  satisfied ;  the  other  lawyers  who  had  come  to  see 
him  had  all  demanded  a  contingent  fee  of  one-third 
or  one-half.  When  the  long  bargaining  was  done  and 
explained  to  Mrs.  Koerner,  who  sat  watchfully  by  try- 
ing to  follow  the  conversation,  and  when  Marriott  had 
said  that  he  would  draw  up  a  contract  for  them  to 


46        THE   TURN   OF  THE   BALANCE 

sign  and  bring  it  when  he  came  again,  the  old  man  was 
ready  to  go  on  with  his  story.  But  before  he  did  so 
he  paused  with  his  immeasurable  German  patience  to 
fill  his  pipe,  and,  when  he  had  lighted  it,  he  began. 

"Veil,  Mr.  Marriott,  ven  I  gom'  on  dis  gountry,  I 
go  to  vork  for  dot  railroadt ;  I  vork  dere  ever  since — 
dot's  t'irty-seven  year  now  alreadty.'*  He  paused  and 
puffed,  and  slowly  winked  his  eyes  as  he  contemplated 
those  thirty-seven  years  of  toil.  *T  vork  at  first  for 
t'irty  tollar  a  month,  den  von  day  Mister  Greene,  dot's 
der  suberintendent  in  dose  tays,  he  call  me  in,  undt  he 
say,  *Koerner,  you  can  read?'  I  say  I  read  English 
some,  undt  he  say,  'Veil,  read  dot,'  undt  he  handt  me  a 
telegram.  Veil  I  read  him — it  say  dot  Greene  can  raise 
der  vages  of  his  vatchman  to  forty  tollar  a  month. 
Veil,  I  handt  him  der  telegram  back  undt  I  say,  T 
could  read  two  t'ree  more  like  dot,  Mister  Greene.' 
He  laugh  den  undt  he  say,  *Vell,  you  read  dot  von 
twicet.'  Veil,  I  got  forty  tollar  a  month  den;  undt  in 
ten  year  dey  raise  me  oncet  again  to  forty-five.  That's 
purty  goodt,  I  t'ink."  The  old  man  paused  in  this 
retrospect  of  good  fortune.  "Veil,"  he  went  on,  "I 
vork  along,  undt  dey  buildt  der  new  shops,  undt  I 
vork  like  a  dog  getting  dose  t'ings  moved,  but  after 
dey  get  all  moved,  he  calls  me  in  von  tay,  undt  he  say 
my  vages  vould  be  reduced  to  forty  tollar  a  month. 
Veil,  I  gan't  help  dot — I  haind't  got  no  other  chob. 
Den,  veil,  I  vork  along  all  right,  but  der  town  get 
bigger,  an'  der  roadt  got  bigger,  an'  dere's  so  many 
men  dere  at  night  dey  don't  need  me  much  longer. 
Undt  Mr.  Greene— he's  lost  his  chob,  too,  undt  Mr. 
Churchill — he's  der  new  suberintendent — he's  cut  ever'- 
t'ing  down,  undt  after  he  gom'  eferbody  vork  longer 


THE  TURN   OF  THE   SaLANCE        47 

undt  get  hell  besides.  He  cut  me  down  to  vere  I  vas  at 
der  first  blace — t'irty  tollar  a  month.   So  I'' 

The  old  man  turned  out  his  palms;  and  his  face  wrin- 
kled into  a  strange  grimace  that  expressed  his  enforced 
submission  to  this  fate.  And  he  smoked  on  until  Mar- 
riott roused  him. 

**Vell,"  he  said,  "dot  night  it  snows,  undt  I  start 
home  again  at  five  o'clock.  It's  dark  undt  the  snow  fly 
so  I  gan't  hardly  see  der  svitch  lights.  But  I  gom' 
across  der  tracks  yust  like  I  always  do  goming  home — 
dot's  the  shortest  way  I  gom',  you  know — ^undt  I  ben 
purty  tired,  undt  my  tamned  old  rheumatiz'  he's  raisin' 
hell  for  t'ree  days  because  dot  storm's  comin' — veil, 
I  gom'  along  beside  dere  segond  track  over  dere,  undt 
I  see  an  engine,  but  he's  goin'  on  dot  main  track,  so  I 
gets  over — ^vell,  de  snow's  fallin'  undt  I  gan't  see  very 
well,  undt  somehow  dot  svitch-engine  gom*  over  on 
der  segond  track,  undt  I  chump  to  get  away,  but  my 
foot  he's  caught  in  der  frog — ^vell,  I  gan't  move,  but 
I  bent  vay  over  to  one  side — so" — ^the  old  man  strained 
himself  over  the  arm  of  his  chair  to  illustrate — "undt 
der  svitch-engine  yust  cut  off  my  foot  nice  undt  glean, 
yell,  dot's  all  der  was  aboudt  it." 

Marriott  gave  a  little  shudder;  in  a  flash  he  had  a 
.vision  of  Koerner  there  in  the  wide  switch-yard  with 
its  bewildering  red  and  green  lights,  the  snow  filling 
the  air,  the  gloom  of  the  winter  twilight,  his  foot  fast 
in  the  frog,  bending  far  over  to  save  his  body,  await- 
ing the  switch-engine  as  it  came  stealing  swiftly  down 
on  him. 

"Did  the  engine  whistle  or  ring  its  bell  ?" 

"No,"  said  the  old  man. 

"And  the  frog— that  was  unblocked?" 


48        THE  TURN  OF!  THE   BALANCE 

Koerner  leaned  toward  Marriott  with  a  cunning 
smile. 

"Dot's  vere  I  got  *em,  aind*t  it?  Dot  frog  he's  not 
blocked  dere  dot  time;  der  law  say  dey  block  dose 
frog  all  der  time,  huh  ?" 

"Yes,  the  frog  must  be  blocked.  But  how  did  your 
foot  get  caught  in  the  frog?" 

"Veil,  I  shlipped,  dot's  it.  I  gan't  see  dot  frog.  You 
ask  Charlie  Drake ;  he's  dere — he  seen  it." 

"What  does  he  do?"  asked  Marriott  as  he  scribbled 
the  name  on  an  old  envelope. 

"He's  a  svitchman  in  der  yard ;  he  tol'  you  all  aboudt 
it;  he  seen  it — ^he  knows.  He  say  to  me,  ^Reinhold, 
you  get  damage  all  right ;  dot  frog  haind't  blocked  dot 
time.'" 

Just  then  the  kitchen  door  opened  and  Gusta  came 
in.  When  she  saw  Marriott  and  Ward,  she  stopped 
and  leaned  against  the  door ;  her  face,  ruddy  from  the 
cool  air,  suddenly  turned  a  deeper  red. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Dick !"  she  said,  and  then  she  looked  at 
Marriott,  whom  she  had  seen  and  served  so  often  at 
the  Wards'. 

**How  do  you  do,  Gusta  ?"  said  Marriott,  getting  up 
and  taking  her  hand.  She  flushed  deeper  than  ever  as 
she  came  forward,  and  her  blue  eyes  sparkled  with 
pleasure.  Dick,  too,  rose  and  took  her  hand. 

"Hello,  Gusta,"  he  said,  "how  are  you?" 

"Oh,  pretty  well,  Mr.  Dick,"  she  answered.  She 
stood  a  moment,  and  then  quietly  began  to  unbutton 
her  jacket  and  to  draw  the  pins  from  her  hat.  Mar- 
riott, who  had  seen  her  so  often  at  the  Wards',  con- 
cluded as  she  stood  there  before  him  that  he  had  never 
realized  how  beautiful  she  was.    She  removed  her 


ii 


THE  .TURN   OF  THE   BALANCE        49 

wraps,  then  drew  up  a  chair  by  her  father  and  sat 
down,  lifting  her  hands  and  smoothing  the  coils  of 
her  golden  hair,  touching  them  gently. 

"YouVe  come  to  talk  over  pa's  case,  haven't  you, 
Mr.  Marriott?" 

"Yes,"  said  Marriott. 

"Fm  glad  of  that,"  the  girl  said.  "He  has  a  good 
case,  hasn't  he  ?" 

"I  think  so,"  said  Marriott,  and  then  he  hastened 
to  add  the  qualification  that  is  always  necessary  in  so 
unexact  and  whimsical  a  science  as  the  law,  "that  is, 
it  seems  so  now ;  I'll  have  to  study  it  somewhat  before 
I  can  give  you  a  definite  opinion." 

"I  think  he  ought  to  have  big  damages,'*  said  Gusta. 
"Why,  just  think!  He's  worked  for  that  railroad  all 
his  life,  and  now  to  lose  his  foot !" 

She  looked  at  her  father,  her  affection  and  sympathy 
showing  in  her  expression.  Marriott  glanced  at  Dick, 
whose  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  girl.  His  lips  were  slight- 
ly parted;  he  gazed  at  her  boldly,  his  eyes  following 
every  curve  of  her  figure.  Her  yellow  hair  was  bright 
in  the  light,  and  the  flush  of  her  cheeks  spread  to  her 
white  neck.  And  Marriott,  in  the  one  moment  he 
glanced  at  Dick,  saw  in  his  face  another  expression — 
an  expression  that  displeased  him;  and  as  he  recalled 
the  resemblance  to  Elizabeth  he  thought  he  had  noted, 
he  impatiently  put  it  away,  and  became  angry  with 
himself  for  ever  imagining  such  a  resemblance;  he 
felt  as  if  he  had  somehow  done  Elizabeth  a  wrong. 
All  the  while  they  were  there  Dick  kept  his  bold  gaze 
on  Gusta,  and  presently  Gusta  seemed  to  feel  it;  the 
flush  of  her  face  and  neck  deepened,  she  grew  ill  at 
case,  and  presently  she  rose  and  left  the  room. 


50        THE  TURN  OF  THE   BALANCE 

When  they  were  in  the  street  Marriott  said  to  Dick : 

"I  don't  know  about  that  poor  old  fellow's  case— 
I'm  afraid—" 

"Gadl"  said  Dick.  "Isn't  Gusta  a  corker!  I  never 
saw  a  prettier  girl." 

*'And  you  never  noticed  it  before?"  said  Marriott. 

"Why,  I  always  knew  she  was  good-looking,  yes," 
said  Dick;  "but  I  never  paid  much  attention  to  her 
when  she  worked  for  us.  I  suppose  it  was  because 
she  was  a  servant,  don't  you  know  ?  A  man  never  no- 
tices the  servants,  someway." 


VI 


Ward  had  not  been  in  the  court-house  for  years, 
and,  as  he  entered  the  building  that  morning,  he  hoped 
he  might  never  be  called  there  again  if  his  mission 
were  to  be  as  sad  as  the  one  on  which  he  then  was 
bent.  Eades  had  asked  him  to  be  there  at  ten  o'clock ; 
it  was  now  within  a  quarter  of  the  hour.  With  a  lay- 
man's difficulty  he  found  the  criminal  court,  and  as  he 
glanced  about  the  high-ceiled  room,  and  saw  that  the 
boy  had  not  yet  been  brought  in,  he  felt  the  relief  that 
comes  from  the  postponement  of  an  ordeal.  With  an 
effect  of  effacing  himself,  he  shrank  into  one  of  the 
seats  behind  the  bar,  and  as  he  waited  his  mind  ran 
back  over  the  events  of  the  past  four  weeks.  He  cal- 
culated—yes, the  flurry  in  the  market  had  occurred 
on  the  day  of  the  big  snow-storm ;  and  now,  so  soon,  it 
had  come  to  this!  Ward  marveled;  he  had  always 
heard  that  the  courts  were  slow,  but  this — ^this  was 
quick  work  indeed !  The  court-room  was  almost  empty. 
The  judge's  chair,  cushioned  in  leather,  was  standing 
empty  behind  the  high  oaken  desk.  The  two  trial  ta- 
bles, across  which  day  after  day  lawyers  bandied  the 
fate  of  human  beings,  were  set  with  geometric  exact- 
ness side  by  side,  as  if  the  janitors  had  fixed  them  with 
an  eye  to  the  impartiality  of  the  law,  resolved  to  give 
the  next  comers  an  even  start.  A  clerk  was  writing 
in  a  big  journal;  the  bailiff  had  taken  a  chair  in  the 

SI 


i2        THE   TURN   OF   THE   BALANCE 

fading  light  of  one  of  the  tall  southern  windows,  and 
in  the  leisure  he  could  so  well  afford  in  a  life-  that  was 
all  leisure,  was  reading  a  newspaper.  His  spectacles 
failed  to  lend  any  glisten  of  interest  to  his  eyes;  he 
read  impersonally,  almost  officially ;  all  interest  seemed 
to  have  died  out  of  his  life,  and  he  could  be  stirred  to 
physical,  though  never  to  mental  activity,  only  by  the 
judge  himself,  to  whom  he  owed  his  sinecure.  The 
life  had  long  ago  died  out  of  this  man,  and  he  had  a 
mild,  passive  interest  in  but  one  or  two  things,  like 
the  Civil  War,  and  the  judge's  thirst,  which  he  regu- 
larly slaked  with  drafts  of  ice-water. 

Presently  two  or  three  young  men  entered  briskly, 
importantly,  and  went  at  once  unhesitatingly  within 
the  bar.  They  entered  with  an  assertive  air  that  marked 
them  indubitably  as  young  lawyers  still  conscious  of 
the  privileges  so  lately  conferred.  Then  some  of  the 
loafers  came  in  from  the  corridor  and  sidled  into  the 
benches  behind  the  bar.  Their  conversation  in  low 
tones,  and  that  of  the  young  lawyers  in  the  higher 
tones  their  official  quality  permitted  them,  filled  the 
room  with  a  busy  interest.  From  time  to  time  the 
loafers  were  joined  by  other  loafers,  and  they  all  pa- 
tiently waited  for  the  sensation  the  criminal  court 
could  dependably  provide. 

It  was  not  long  before  there  was  a  scrape  and  shuffle 
of  feet  and  a  rattle  of  steel,  and  then  a  broad-shouldered 
man  edged  through  the  door.  With  his  right  hand  he 
seized  a  Scotch  cap  from  a  head  that  bristled  with  a 
stubble  of  red  hair.  His  left  hand  hung  by  his  side, 
and  when  he  had  got  into  the  court-room.  Ward  saw 
that  a  white-haired  man  walked  close  beside  him,  his 
right  hand  manacled  to  the  left  hand  of  the  red-haired 


[THE  TURN   OF  THE   BALANCE        53 

man.  THe  red-haired  man  was  Danner,  the  jail^.  Be* 
hind  him  in  sets  of  twos  marched  half  a  dozen  other 
men,  each  set  chained  together.  The  rear  of  the  Httle 
procession  was  brought  up  by  Utter,  a  stalwart  young 
man  who  was  one  of  Banner's  assistants. 

The  scrape  of  the  feet  that  were  so  soon  to  shufB« 
into  the  penitentiary,  and  leave  scarce  an  echo  of  their 
hopeless  fall  behind,  roused  every  one  in  the  court- 
room. Even  the  bailiff  got  to  his  rheumatic  feet  and 
hastily  arranged  a  row  of  chairs  in  front  of  the  trial 
tables.  The  prisoners  sat  down  and  tried  to  hide  their 
manacles  by  dropping  their  hands  between  their  chairs. 

There  were  seven  of  these  prisoners,  the  oldest  the 
man  whom  Danner  had  conducted.  He  sat  with  his 
white  head  cast  down,  but  his  blue  eyes  roamed  here 
and  there,  taking  in  the  whole  court-room.  The  other 
prisoners  were  young  men,  one  of  them  a  negro ;  and 
in  the  appearance  of  all  there  was  some  pathetic  sug- 
gestion of  a  toilet.  All  of  them  had  their  hair  combed 
carefully,  except  the  negro,  whose  hair  could  give  no 
perceptible  evidence  of  the  comb,  unless  it  were  the 
slight,  almost  invisible  part  that  bisected  his  head. 
But  he  gave  the  same  air  of  trying  somehow  to  make 
the  best  appearance  he  was  capable  of  on  this  event- 
ful day. 

Ward^s  eyes  ran  rapidly  along  the  row,  and  rested 
on  the  brown-haired,  well-formed  head  of  the  youngest 
of  the  group.  He  was  scarcely  more  than  a  boy  in- 
deed, and  he  alone,  of  all  the  line,  was  well  dressed. 
His  linen  was  white,  and  he  wore  his  well-fitting 
clothes  with  a  certain  vanity  and  air  of  style  that  even 
his  predicament  could  not  divest  him  of.  As  Ward 
glanced  at  him,  an  expression  of  pain  came  to  his 


54        THE   TURN   OF   THE    BALANCE 

face;  the  color  left  it  for  an  instant,  and  then  it  grew, 
redder  than  it  had  been  before. 

These  prisoners  were  about  to  be  sentenced  for  va- 
rious felonies.  Two  of  them,  the  old  man  with  the 
white  hair  and  the  negro,  had  been  tried,  the  one  for 
pocket-picking,  the  other  for  burglary.  The  others 
were  to  change  their  pleas  from  not  guilty  to  guilty 
and  throw  themselves  on  the  mercy  of  the  court.  They 
sat  there,  whispering  with  one  another,  gazing  about 
the  room,  and  speculating  on  what  fate  awaited  them, 
or,  as  they  would  have  phrased  it,  what  sentences  they 
would  draw.  Like  most  prisoners  they  were  what  the 
laws  define  as  "indigent,"  that  is,  so  poor  that  they 
could  not  employ  lawyers.  The  court  in  consequence 
had  appointed  counsel,  and  the  young  lawyers  who  now 
stood  and  joked  about  the  fates  that  were  presently  to 
issue  from  the  judge's  chambers,  were  the  counsel 
thus  appointed.  Now  and  then  the  prisoners  looked  at 
the  lawyers,  and  some  of  them  may  have  indulged 
speculations  as  to  how  that  fate  might  have  been 
changed — perhaps  altogether  avoided — had  they  been 
able  to  employ  more  capable  attorneys.  Those  among 
them  who  had  been  induced  by  their  young  attorneys  to 
plead  guilty — under  assurances  that  they  would  thus 
fare  better  than  they  would  if  they  resisted  the  law 
by  insisting  on  their  rights  under  it — probably  had  not 
the  imagination  to  divine  that  they  might  have  fared 
otherwise  at  the  hands  of  tlie  law  if  these  lawyers  had 
not  dreaded  the  trial  as  an  ordeal  almost  as  great  to 
them  as  to  their  appointed  clients,  or  if  they  had  not 
been  so  indigent  themselves  as  to  desire  speedily  to 
draw  the  fee  the  State  would  allow  them  for  their  ser- 
vices.   Most  of  the  prisoners,  indeed,  treated  these 


THE  TURN   OF  THE   BALANCE        55 

young  law};ers  with  a  certain  patience,  if  not  forbear- 
ance, and  now  they  reHed  on  them  for  such  mercy  as 
the  law  might  find  in  its  heart  to  bestow.  Most  of  them 
might  have  reflected,  had  they  been  given  to  the  prac- 
tice, that  on  former  experiences  they  had  found  the 
breast  of  the  law,  as  to  this  divine  quality,  withered 
and  dry.  They  sat  and  glanced  about,  and  now  and 
then  whispered,  but  for  the  most  part  they  were  still 
and  dumb  and  hopeless.  Meanwhile  their  lawyers  dis- 
cussed and  compared  them,  declaring  their  faces  to  be 
hard  and  criminal;  one  of  the  young  men  thought  a 
certain  face  showed  particularly  the  marks  of  crime, 
and  when  his  fellows  discovered  that  he  meant  the 
face  of  Danner,  they  laughed  aloud  and  had  a  good 
joke  on  the  young  man.  The  young  man  became  very 
red,  almost  as  red  as  Danner  himself,  whom,  he  begged, 
they  would  not  tell  of  his  mistake. 

At  that  moment  the  door  of  the  judge's  chambers 
opened,  and  instant  silence  fell.  McWhorter,  the  judge, 
appeared.  He  was  a  man  of  middle  size,  with  black 
curly  hair,  smooth-shaven  face,  and  black  eyes  that 
caught  in  the  swiftest  glance  the  row  of  prisoners,  who 
now  straightened  and  fixed  their  eyes  on  him.  Mc- 
Whorter advanced  with  a  brisk  step  to  the  bench, 
mounted  it,  and  nodding,  said : 

*'You  may  open  court,  Mr.  Bailiff.'* 

The  bailiff  let  his  gavel  fall  on  the  marble  slab, 
and  then  with  his  head  hanging,  his  eyes  roving  in  a 
self-conscious,  almost  silly  way,  he  said: 

"Hear  ye,  hear  ye,  hear  ye,  this  honorable  court 
is  now  in  session." 

The  bailiff  sat  down  as  in  relief,  but  immediately 
got  up  again  when  the  judge  said: 


56        THE  TURN  OF.  THE   BALANCE 

**Bring  me  the  criminal  docket,  Mr.  Bailiff." 

The  bailiff's  bent  figure  tottered  out  of  the  court* 
room.  The  court-room  was  very  still ;  the  ticking  of 
the  clock  on  the  wall  could  be  heard.  The  judge 
swung  his  chair  about  and  glanced  out  of  the  win- 
dows. Never  once  did  he  permit  his  eyes  to  rest  on 
the  prisoners. 

i  There  was  silence  and  waiting,  and  after  a  while 
the  bailiff  came  with  the  docket.  The  judge  opened 
the  book,  put  on  a  pair  of  gold  glasses,  and,  after  a 
time,  reading  slowly,  said : 
j  "The  State  versus  Patrick  Delaney." 
'  The  white-haired  prisoner  patiently  held  out  two 
hands,  marvelously  tatooed,  and  Danner  unlocked  the 
handcuffs.  At  the  same  moment  one  of  the  young  law- 
yers stood  forth  from  the  rest,  and  Lamborn,  an  as- 
sistant prosecutor,  rose. 

McWhorter  was  studying  the  docket.  Presently  he 
said: 

"Stand  up,  Delaney." 

Delaney  rose,  kept  his  eyes  on  the  floor,  clasped  a 
hand  about  his  red  wrist.  Then,  for  the  first  time,  the 
judge  looked  at  him. 

}  "Delaney,"  he  said,  "have  you  anything  to  say  why 
the  sentence  of  this  court  should  not  be  passed  upon 
you?" 

j  Delaney  looked  uneasily  at  the  judge  and  then  let  his 
eyes  fall. 

f     "No,  Judge,  yer  Honor,"  he  said,  "nothing  but  that 

I'm  an  innocent  man.  I  didn't  do  it,  yer  Honor." 

;!     The  remark  did  not  seem  to  impress  tKe  judge,  who 

turned  toward  the  lawyer.    This  young  man,  with  a 

venturesome  air,  stepped  a  little  farther  from  the  shel- 


THE  TURN   OF  THE   BALANCE        57 

tering  company  of  his  associates  and,  with  a  face  that 
was  very  white  and  lips  that  faltered,  said  in  a  con- 
fused, hurried  way : 

"Your  Honor,  we  hope  your  Honor'll  be  as  lenient 
as  possible  with  this  man;  we  hope  your  Honor  will 
be  as — lenient  as  possible."  The  youth's  voice  died 
away  and  he  faded  back,  as  it  were,  into  the  shelter  of 
his  companions.  The  judge  did  not  seem  to  be  more 
impressed  with  what  the  lawyer  had  said  than  he  had 
with  what  the  client  had  said,  and  twirling  his  glasses 
by  their  cord,  he  turned  toward  the  assistant  prose- 
cutor. 

Lamborn,  with  an  affectation  of  great  ease,  with  one 
hand  in  the  pocket  of  his  creased  trousers,  the  other 
supporting  a  book  of  memoranda,  advanced  and  said : 

*'May  it  please  the  Court,  this  man  is  an  habitual 
criminal ;  he  has  already  served  a  term  in  the  peniten- 
tiary for  this  same  offense,  and  we  understand  that  he 
is  wanted  in  New  York  State  at  this  present  time.  We 
consider  him  a  dangerous  criminal,  and  the  State  feels 
that  he  should  be  severely  punished." 

McWhorter  studied  the  ceiling  of  the  court-room  a 
moment,  still  swinging  his  eye-glasses  by  their  cord, 
and  then,  fixing  them  on  his  nose,  looked  wisely  down 
at  Delaney.  Presently  he  spoke : 

"It  is  always  an  unpleasant  duty  to  sentence  a  man 
to  prison,  no  matter  how  much  he  may  deserve  punish- 
ment." McWhorter  paused  as  if  to  let  every  one  realize 
his  pain  in  this  exigency,  and  then  went  on:  "But  it 
is  our  duty,  and  we  can  not  shirk  it.  A  jury,  Delaney, 
after  a  fair  trial,  has  found  you  guilty  of  burglary.  It 
appears  from  what  the  prosecutor  says  that  this  is  not 
the  first  time  you  have  been  found  guilty  of  this  of- 


58        THE   TURN   OF   THE    BALANCE 

fense ;  the  experience  does  not  seem  to  have  done  you 
any  good.  You  impress  the  Court  as  a  man  who  has 
abandoned  himself  to  a  life  of  crime,  and  the  Court 
feels  that  you  should  receive  a  sentence  in  this  instance 
that  will  serve  as  a  warning  to  you  and  to  others.  The 
sentence  of  the  Court  is — "  McWhorter  paused  as  if  to 
balance  the  scales  of  justice  with  all  nicety,  and  then 
he  looked  away.  He  did  not  know  exactly  how  many 
years  in  prison  would  expiate  Delaney's  crime;  there 
was,  of  course,  no  way  for  him  to  tell.  He  thought 
first  of  the  number  ten,  then  of  the  number  five ;  then, 
as  the  saying  is,  he  split  the  difference,  inclined  the  frac- 
tion to  the  prisoner  and  said : 

"The  sentence  of  the  Court  is  that  you  be  confined  in 
the  penitentiary  at  hard  labor  for  the  period  of  seven 
years,  no  part  of  your  sentence  to'be  in  solitary  confine- 
ment, and  that  you  pay  the  costs  of  this  prosecution." 

Delaney  sat  down  without  changing  expression  and 
held  out  his  hands  for  the  handcuffs.  The  steel  clicked, 
and  the  scratch  of  the  judge's  pen  could  be  heard  as 
he  entered  the  judgment  in  the  docket. 

These  proceedings  were  repeated  again  and  again. 
McWhorter  read  the  title  of  the  case,  Danner  un- 
shackled the  prisoner,  who  stood  up,  gazing  dumbly  at 
the  floor,  his  lawyer  asked  the  Court  to  be  lenient, 
Lamborn  asked  the  Court  to  be  severe,  McWhorter 
twirled  his  gold  glasses,  looked  out  of  the  window, 
made  his  little  speech,  guessed,  and  pronounced  sen- 
tence. The  culprit  sat  down,  held  out  his  hands  for  the 
manacles,  then  the  click  of  the  steel  and  the  scratch  of 
the  judicial  pen.   It  grew  monotonous. 

But  just  before  the  last  man  was  called  to  book,  John 
Eades,  the  prosecutor,   entered  the   court-room.    At 


THE   TURN    OF   THE   BALANCE        59 

sight  of  liiiii  the  young  lawyers,   the  loafers  on  th« 
benches,  even  the  judge  looked  up. 

Eades's  tall  fi'gure  had  not  yet  lost  the  grace  of 
youth,  though  it  was  giving  the  first  evidence  that  he 
had  reached  that  period  of  life  when  it  would  begin  to 
gather  weight.  He  was  well  dressed  in  the  blue  clothes 
of  a  business  man,  and  he  was  young  enough  at  thirty- 
five  to  belong  to  what  may  not  too  accurately  be  called  ^ 
the  new  school  of  lawyers,  growing  up  in  a  day  wheii^  [ 
the  law  is  changing  from  a  profession  to  a  business,  in  I 
distinction  from  the  passing  day  of  long  coaFs  of  pro- 
fessional black,  of  a  gravity  that  frequently  concealed  a 
certain  profligacy,  and,  wherever  it  was  successful,  of 
native  brilliancy  that  could  ignore  application.  Eades's 
dark  hair  was  carefully  parted  above  his  smooth  brow ; 
he  had  rather  heavy  eyebrows,  a  large  nose,  and  thin, 
tightly-set  lips  that  gave  strength  and  firmness  to  a 
clean-shaven  face.  He  whispered  a  word  to  his  assist- 
ant, and  then  said : 

"May  it  please  the  Court,  when  the  case  of  the  State 
versus  Henry  C.  Graves  is  reached,  I  should  like  to  be 
heard." 

"The  Court  was  about  to  dispose  of  that  case,  Mr. 
Eades,"  said  the  judge,  looking  over  his  docket  and  fix- 
ing his  glasses  on  his  nose. 

"Very  well/'  said  Eades,  glancing  at  the  group  of 
young  attorneys.  "Mr.  Metcalf,  I  believe,  represents 
the  defendant." 

The  young  lawyer  thus  indicated  emerged  from  the 
group  that  seemed  to  keep  so  closely  together,  and 
said : 

"Yes,  your  Honor,  we'd  like  to  be  h^ard  also." 

"Graves  may  stand  up,"  said  the  judge,  removing 


6o        THE  TURN  OF  THE   BALANCE 

his  glasses  and  tilting  back  in  His  chair  as  if  to  listen 
to  long  arguments. 

Banner  had  been  unlocking  the  handcuffs  again,  and 
the  young  man  who  had  been  so  frequently  remarked 
in  the  line  rose.  His  youthful  face  flushed  scarlet; 
he  glanced  about  the  court-room,  saw  Ward,  drew  a 
heavy  breath,  and  then  fixed  his  eyes  on  the  floor. 

Eades  looked  at  Metcalf,  who  stepped  forward  and 
began : 

"In  this  case,  your  Honor,  we  desire  to  withdraw  the 
plea  of  not  guilty  and  substitute  a  plea  of  guilty.  And 
I  should  like  to  say  a  few  words  for  my  client." 

"Proceed,"  said  McWhorter. 

Metcalf,  looking  at  his  feet,  took  two  or  three  steps 
forward,  and  then,  lifting  his  head,  suddenly  began : 

"Your  Honor,  this  is  the  first  time  this  young  man 
has  ever  committed  any  crime.  He  is  but  twenty-three 
years  old,  and  he  has  always  borne  a  good  reputation 
in  this  community.  He  is  the  sole  support  of  a  widowed 
mother,  and — yes,  he  is  the  sole  support  of  a  widowed 
mother.  He — a — has  been  for  three  years  employed  in 
the  firm  of  Stephen  Ward  and  Company,  and  has 
always  until — a — this  unfortunate  affair  enjoyed  the 
confidence  and  esteem  of  his  employers.  He  stands 
here  now  charged  in  the  indictment  with  embezzle- 
ment ;  he  admits  his  guilt.  He  has,  as  I  say,  never  done 
wrong  before — and  I  believe  that  this  will  be  a  lesson 
to  him  which  he  will  not  forget.  He  desires  to  throw 
himself  on  the  mercy  of  the  Court,  and  I  ask  the  Court 
— to — a — ^be  as  lenient  as  possible." 

"Has  the  State  anything  to  say?"  asked  the  judge. 

"May  it  please  the  Court,"  said  Eades,  speaking  in 


THE  TURN   OE  THE  BALANCE        6i 

his  low,  studied  tone,  "we  acquiesce  in  all  that  counsel 
for  defense  has  said.  This  young  man,  so  far  as  the 
State  knows,  has  never  before  committed  a  crime.  And 
yet,  he  has  had  the  advantages  of  a  good  home,  of  an 
excellent  mother,  and  he  had  the  best  prospects  in  life 
that  a  young  man  could  wish.  He  was,  as  counsel  has 
said,  employed  by  Mr.  Ward — who  is  here — "  Eades 
turned  half-way  around  and  indicated  Ward,  who  rose 
and  felt  that  the  time  had  come  when  he  should  go  for- 
ward. ''He  was  one  of  Mr.  Ward's  trusted  employees. 
Unfortunately,  he  began  to  speculate  on  the  Board  him- 
self, and  it  seems,  in  the  stir  of  the  recent  excitement 
in  wheat,  appropriated  some  nine  hundred  dollars  of 
his  employer's  money.  Mr.  Ward  is  not  disposed  to 
Ideal  harshly  or  in  any  vengeful  spirit  with  this  young 
man;  he  has  shown,  indeed,  the  utmost  forbearance. 
Nor  is  the  State  disposed  to  deal  in  any  such  spirit  with 
him ;  he,  and  especially  his  mother,  have  my  sympathy. 
But  we  feel  that  the  law  must  be  vindicated  and  upheld, 
and  while  the  State  is  disposed  to  leave  with  the  Court 
the  fixing  of  such  punishment  as  may  be  appropriate, 
and  has  no  thought  of  suggesting  what  the  Court's 
duty  shall  be,  still  the  State  feels  that  the  punishment 
should  be  substantial.'* 

Eades  finished  and  seated  himself  at  the  counsel 
table.  The  young  lawyers  looked  at  him,  and,  whisper- 
ing among  themselves,  said  that  they  considered  the 
speech  to  have  been  very  fitting  and  appropriate  under 
the  circumstances. 

McWhorter  deliberated  a  moment,  and  then,  glanc- 
ing toward  the  young  man,  suddenly  saw  Ward, 
and,  thinking  that  if  Ward  would  speak  he  would 


62        THE   TURN   UF   THE   BALANCE 

have  more  time  to  guess  what  punishment  to  give  the 
boy,  he  said : 

*'Mr.  Ward,  do  you  care  to  be  heard  ?'* 

Ward  hesitated,  changed  color,  and  slowly  ad- 
vanced. He  was  not  accustomed  to  speaking  in  public, 
and  this  was  an  ordeal  for  him.  He  came  forward, 
halted,  and  then,  clearing  his  throat,  said : 

"I  don't  know  that  I  have  anything  much  to  say, 
only  this — that  this  is  a  very  painful  experience  to  me. 
I" —  he  looked  toward  the  youthful  culprit — "I  was 
always  fond  of  Henry ;  he  was  a  good  boy,  and  we  all 
liked  him."  The  brown  head  seemed  to  sink  between 
its  shoulders.  "Yes,  we  all  liked  him,  and  I  don't  know 
that  anything  ever  surprised  me  so  much  as  this  thing 
did,  or  hurt  me  more.  I  didn't  think  it  of  him.  I  feel 
sorry  for  his  mother,  too.  I — "  Ward  hesitated  and 
looked  down  at  the  floor. 

The  situation  suddenly  became  distressing  to  every 
one  in  the  court-room.  And  then,  with  new  effort, 
Ward  went  on :  "I  didn't  like  to  have  him  prosecuted, 
but  we  employ  a  great  many  men,  many  of  them  young 
men,  and  it  seemed  to  be  my  duty.  I  don't  know ;  I've 
had  my  doubts.  It  isn't  the  money — I  don't  care  about 
that ;  I'd  be  willing,  so  far  as  I'm  concerned,  to  have 
him  go  free  now.  I  hope.  Judge,  that  you'll  be  as  easy 
on  him,  as  merciful  as  possible.  That's  about  all  I  can 
say." 

Ward  sat  down  in  the  nearest  chair,  and  the  judge, 
knitting  his  brows,  glanced  out  of  the  window.  Nearly 
every  one  glanced  out  of  the  window,  save  Graves,  who 
stood  rigid,  his  eyes  staring  at  the  floor.  Presently  Mc- 
Whorter  turned  and  said : 

"Graves,  have  you  anything  to  say  why  the  sentence 
of  this  court  should  not  be  passed  on  jrou?" 


THE   TURN    OF   THE    BALANCE         63 

The  youth  raised  his  head,  looked  into  McWhorter's 
eyes,  and  said : 

"No,  sir.'* 

McWhorter  turned  suddenly  and  looked  away. 

*The  Court  does  not  remember  in  all  his  career  a 
more  painful  case  than  this,"  he  began.  'That  a  young 
man  of  your  training  and  connections,  of  your  advan- 
tages and  prospects,  should  be  standing  here  at  the  bar 
of  justice,  a  self-confessed  embezzler,  is  sad,  inexpress- 
ibly sad.  The  Court  realizes  that  you  have  done  a 
manly  thing  in  pleading  guilty ;  it  speaks  well  for  you 
that  you  were  unwilling  to  add  perjury  to  your  other 
crime.  The  Court  will  take  that  into  consideration." 
McWhorter  nodded  decisively. 

"The  Court  will  also  take  into  consideration  your 
youth,  and  the  fact  that  this  is  your  first  offense.  Your 
looks  are  in  your  favor.  You  are  a  young  man  who, 
by  proper,  sober,  industrious  application,  might  easily 
become  a  successful,  honest,  worthy  citizen.  Your  em- 
ployer speaks  well  of  you,  and  shows  great  patience, 
great  forbearance;  he  is  ready  to  forgive  you,  and  he 
even  asks  the  Court  to  be  merciful.  The  Court  will 
take  that  fact  into  consideration  as  well." 

Again  McWhorter  nodded  decisively,  and  then,  feel- 
ing that  much  was  due  to  a  man  of  Ward's  position, 
went  on : 

"The  Court  wishes  to  say  that  you,  Mr.  Ward,"  he 
gave  one  of  his  nods  in  that  gentleman's  direction, 
"have  acted  the  part  of  a  good  citizen  in  this  affair. 
You  have  done  your  duty,  as  every  citizen  should,  pain- 
ful as  it  was.  The  Court  congratulates  you." 

And  then,  having  thought  again  of  the  painfulness 
of  this  duty,  McWhorter  went  on  to  tdl  how  painful 


64        THE   TURN   OF   THE   BALANCE 

his  own  duty  was ;  but  he  said  it  would  not  do  to  allow 
sympathy  to  obscure  judgment  in  such  cases.  He 
talked  at  length  on  this  theme,  still  unable  to  end,  be- 
cause he  did  not  know  what  sort  of  guess  to  make. 
And  then  he  began  to  discuss  the  evils  of  speculation, 
and  when  he  saw  that  the  reporters  were  scribbling 
desperately  to  put  down  all  he  was  saying,  he  extended 
his  remarks  and  delivered  a  long  homily  on  speculation 
in  certain  of  its  forms,  characterizing  it  as  one  of  the 
worst  and  most  prevalent  vices  of  the  day.  After  he 
had  said  all  he  could  think  of  on  this  topic,  he  spoke  to 
Graves  again,  and  explained  to  him  the  advantages  of 
being  in  the  penitentiary,  how  by  his  behavior  he  might 
shorten  his  sentence  by  several  months,  and  how  much 
time  he  would  have  for  reflection  and  for  the  forma- 
tion of  good  resolutions.  It  seemed,  indeed,  before  he 
had  done,  that  it  was  almost  a  deprivation  not  to  be 
able  to  go  to  a  penitentiary.  But  finally  he  came  to  an 
end.  Then  he  looked  once  more  out  of  the  window, 
once  more  twirled  his  eye-glasses  on  their  cord,  and 
then,  turning  about,  came  to  the  reserved  climax  of 
his  long  address. 

"The  sentence  of  the  Court,  Mr.  Graves,  is  that  you 
be  confined  in  the  penitentiary  at  hard  labor  for  the 
term  of  one  year,  no  part  of  said  sentence  to  consist  of 
solitary  confinement,  and  that  you  pay  the  costs  of  this 
prosecution." 

The  boy  sat  down,  held  out  his  wrists  for  the  hand- 
cuffs, the  steel  clicked,  the  pen  scratched  in  the  silence. 

Danner  got  up,  marshaled  his  prisoners,  and.  they 
marched  out.  The  eyes  of  every  one  in  the  court-room 
followed  them,  the  eyes  of  Ward  fixed  on  Graves.  As 


^. 


THE   TURN   OF   THE   BALANCE        65 

he  looked,  he  saw  a  woman  sitting  on  the  last  one  of 
the  benches  near  the  door.  Her  head  was  bowed  on  her 
hand,  but  as  the  procession  passed  she  raised  her  face, 
all  red  and  swollen  with  weeping,  and,  with  a  look  of 
love  and  tenderness  and  despair,  fixed  her  eyes  on 
Graves.  The  boy  did  not  look  at  her,  but  marched  by, 
his  head  resolutely  erect. 


Vtl 


Ward  returned  to  his  office  and  to  his  work,  but  all 
that  day,  in  the  excitement  on  the  floor  of  the  exchange, 
during  luncheon  at  the  club,  at  his  desk,  in  his  carriage 
going  home  at  evening,  he  saw  before  him  that  row  of 
heads — ^the  white  poll  of  old  Delaney,  the  woolly  pate 
of  the  negro,  but,  more  than  all,  the  brown  head  of 
Harry  Graves.  And  when  he  entered  his  home  at  even- 
ing the  sadness  of  his  reflections  was  still  in  his  face. 

"What's  the  matter  this  evening?"  asked  Elizabeth. 
"Nerves?" 

"Yes." 

"Been  on  the  wrong  side  to-day  ?" 

"Yes,  decidedly,  I  fear,"  said  Ward. 

"What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"I've  sent  a  boy  to  the  penitentiary."  Ward  felt  a 
kind  of  relief,  the  first  he  had  felt  all  that  day,  in  deal- 
ing thus  bluntly,  thus  brutally,  with  himself.  Elizabeth 
knit  her  brows,  and  her  eyes  winked  rapidly  in  the 
puzzled  expression  that  came  to  them. 

"You  remember  Harry  Graves  ?"  asked  her  father. 

"Oh,  that  young  man  ?" 

"Yes,  that  young  man.  Well,  I've  sent  him  to  t-he 
penitentiary." 

"What  is  that  you  say,  Stephen?"  asked  Mrs.  Ward, 
coming  just  then  into  the  room.  She  had  heard  his 
words,  but  she  wished  to  hear  them  again. 

"I  just  said  I'd  sent  Harry  Graves  to  the  peniten- 
tiary." 

66 


THE  TURN   OF  THE  BALANCE        (,y 

*'For  how  long?"  asked  Mrs.  Ward,  with  a  judicial 
desire  for  all  the  facts,  usually  unnecessary  in  her 
judgments. 

"For  one  year." 

"Why,  how  easily  he  got  off!"  said  Mrs.  Ward. 
"And  do  hurry  now,  Stephen.  You're  late." 

Elizabeth  saw  the  pain  her  mother  had  been  so  un- 
conscious of  in  her  father's  face,  and  she  gave  Ward 
a  little  pat  on  the  shoulder. 

"You  dear  old  goose,"  she  said,  "to  feel  that  way 
about  it.  Of  course,  you  didn't  send  him — it  was  John 
Eades.  That's  his  business." 

But  Ward  shook  his  head,  unconvinced. 

"Doubtless  it  will  be  a  good  thing  for  the  young 
man,"  said  Mrs.  Ward.  "He  has  only  himself  to  blame, 
anyway." 

But  still  Ward  shook  his  head,  and  his  wife  looked 
at  him  with  an  expression  that  showed  her  desire  to 
help  him  out  of  his  gloomy  mood. 

"You  know  you  could  have  done  nothing  else  than 
what  you  did  do,"  she  said.  "Criminals  must  be  pun- 
ished ;  there  is  no  way  out  of  it.  You're  morbid — you 
shouldn't  feel  so." 

But  once  more  Ward  gave  that  unconvinced  shake 
of  the  head,  and  sighed. 

"See  here,"  said  Elizabeth,  with  the  sternness  her 
father  liked  to  have  her  employ  with  him,  "you  stop 
this  right  away."  She  shook  him  by  the  shoulder. 
"You  make  me  feel  as  if  I  had  done  something  wrong 
myself ;  you'll  have  us  all  feeling  that  we  belong  to  the 
criminal  classes  ourselves." 

"I've  succeeded  in  making  myself  feel  like  a  dog," 
Ward  replied. 


VIII 

The  county  jail  was  in  commotion.  In  tHe  street  out- 
side a  patrol  wagon  was  backed  against  the  curb.  The 
sleek  coats  of  its  bay  horses  were  moist  with  mist ;  and 
as  the  horses  stamped  fretfully  in  the  slush,  the  driver, 
muffled  in  his  policeman's  overcoat,  spoke  to  them, 
begging  them  to  be  patient,  and  each  time  looked  back 
with  a  clouded  face  toward  the  outer  door  of  the  jail. 
This  door,  innocent  enough  with  its  bright  oak  panels 
and  ground  glass,  was  open.  Inside,  beyond  the  vesti- 
bule, beyond  another  oaken  door,  stood  Danner.  He 
was  in  black,  evidently  his  dress  for  such  occasions.  He 
wore  new,  squeaking  shoes,  and  his  red  face  showed  the 
powder  a  barber  had  put  on  it  half  an  hour  before.  On 
his  desk  lay  his  overcoat,  umbrella,  and  a  small  valise.; 
The  door  of  the  glass  case  on  the  wall,  wherein  were 
displayed  all  kinds  of  handcuffs,  nippers,  squeezers, 
come-alongs  and  leather  strait- jackets,  together  with 
an  impressive  exhibit  of  monstrous  steel  keys,  was 
open,  and  several  of  its  brass  hooks  were  empty.  Ban- 
ner, as  he  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  looked  about 
as  if  to  assure  himself  that  he  had  forgotten  nothing, 
and  then  went  to  the  window,  drew  out  a  revolver, 
broke  it  at  the  breach,  and  carefully  inspected  its  loads. 
That  done,  he  snapped  the  revolver  together  and 
slipped  it  into  the  holster  that  was  slung  to  a  belt  about 

68 


THE   TURN   OF   THE   BALANCE        69 

his  waist.  He  did  not  button  the  coat  that  concealed 
this  weapon.  Then  he  looked  through  the  window,  saw 
the  patrol  wagon,  took  out  his  watch  and  shouted  an- 
grily : 

"For  God's  sake,  Hal,  hurry  up  V 

Banner's  impatient  admonition  seemed  to  be  directed 
through  the  great  barred  door  that  opened  oil  the  other 
side  of  the  office  into  the  prison,  and  from  within  there 
came  the  prompt  and  propitiatory  reply  of  the  under- 
ling: 

"All  right,  Jim,  in  a  minute." 

The  open  door,  the  evident  preparation,  the  spirit  of 
impending  change,  the  welcome  break  in  the  monotony 
of  the  jail's  diurnal  routine,  all  were  evidenced  in  the 
tumult  that  was  going  on  beyond  that  huge  gate  of 
thick  steel  bars.  The  voice  of  the  under-turnkey  had 
risen  above  the  din  of  other  voices  proceeding  from  the 
depths  of  hidden  cells ;  there  was  a  constant  shuffle  of 
feet  on  cement  floors,  the  rattle  of  keys,  the  heavy 
tumbling  of  bolts,  the  clang  and  grating  of  steel  as  the 
shifting  of  a  lever  opened  and  closed  simultaneously 
all  the  doors  of  an  entire  tier  of  cells.  These  noises 
seemed  to  excite  the  inmates,  but  presently  above 
the  discord  arose  human  cries,  a  chorus  of  good-bys, 
followed  in  a  moment  by  those  messages  that  conven- 
tionally accompany  all  departures,  though  these  were 
delivered  in  all  the  various  shades  of  sarcasm  and  bitter 
irony. 

"Good-by!" 

"Remember  us  to  the  main  screw  !" 

"Think  of  us  when  you  get  to  the  big  house !" 

Thus  the  voices  called. 

Jind  then  suddenly,  one  voice  rose  above  the  rest,  a 


70         THE   TURN    OF   THE    BALANCE 

fine  barytone  voice  that  would  have  been  beautiful  had 
not  it  taken  on  a  tone  of  mockery  as  it  sang: 

"We're  going  home !  We're  going  home  ! 
No  more  to  sin  and  sorrow.' 

Then  other  voices  took  up  the  lines  they  had  heard 
at  the  Sunday  services,  and  bawled  the  hymn  in  a  hor- 
rible chorus.  The  sound  infuriated  Banner,  and  he 
rushed  to  the  barred  door  and  shouted : 

"Shut  up !  Shut  up  !"  and  he  poured  out  a  volume  of 
obscene  oaths.  From  inside  came  yells,  derisive  in  the 
safety  of  anonymity. 

''You'll  get  nothing  but  bread  and  water  for  supper 
after  that !"  Banner  shouted  back.  He  began  to  unlock 
the  door,  but,  glancing  at  the  desk,  changed  his  mind 
and  turned  and  paced  the  floor. 

But  now  the  noise  of  the  talking,  the  shuffle  of  feet 
on  the  concrete  floors,  came  nearer.  The  door  of  the 
prison  was  unlocked ;  it  swung  back,  and  there  marched 
forth,  walking  sidewise,  with  difficulty,  because  they 
were  all  chained  together,  thirteen  men.  Two  of  the 
thirteen,  the  first  and  last,  were  Gregg  and  Poole, 
under-turnkeys.  Utter,  Banner's  first  assistant,  came 
last,  carefully  locking  the  door  behind  him. 

''Line  up  here,"  said  Banner  angrily,  "we  haven't 
got  all  night !" 

The  men  stood  in  a  row,  and  Banner,  leaning  over 
his  desk,  began  to  check  off  their  names.  There  was  the 
white-haired  Belaney,  who  had  seven  years  for  bur- 
glary ;  Johnson,  a  negro  who  had  been  given  fifteen 
years  for  cutting  with  intent  to  kill ;  Simmons,  five 
years  for  grand  larceny ;  Gunning,  four  years  for 
housebreaking: ;  Schypalski,  a  Pole,  three  years  for  ar- 


THE   TURN   OF   THE   BALANCE        71 

son ;  Graves,  the  employee  of  Ward,  one  year  for  em- 
bezzlement; McCarthy,  and  Hayes  his  partner,  five 
years  each  for  burglary  and  larceny ;  "Deacon"  Samuel, 
an  old  thief,  and  ''New  York  Willie,"  alias  "The  Kid," 
a  pickpocket,  who  had  each  seven  years  for  larceny 
from  the  person;  and  Brice,  who  had  eight  years  for 
robbery.  These  men  were  to  be  taken  to  the  peniten- 
tiary. Nearly  all  of  them  were  guilty  of  the  crimes  of 
which  they  had  been  convicted. 

The  sheriff  had  detailed  Danner  to  escort  these  pris- 
oners to  the  penitentiary,  as  he  sometimes  did  when 
he  did  not  care  to  make  the  trip  himself.  Gregg 
would  accompany  Danner,  while  Poole  would  go  only 
as  far  as  the  railway  station.  Danner  was  anxious  to 
be  off;  these  trips  to  the  state  capital  were  a  great 
pleasure  to  him,  and  he  had  that  nervous  dread  of 
missing  the  train  which  comes  over  most  people  as  they 
are  about  to  start  away  for  a  holiday.  He  was  anxious 
to  get  away  from  the  jail  before  anything  happened  to 
stay  him;  he  was  anxious  to  be  on  the  moving  train, 
for  until  then  he  could  not  feel  himself  safe  from  some 
sudden  recall.  He  had  been^  thinking  all  day  of  the 
black-eyed  girl  in  a  brothel  not  three  blocks  from  the 
penitentiary,  whom  he  expected  to  see  that  night  after 
he  had  turned  the  prisoners  over  to  the  warden.  He 
could  scarcely  keep  his  mind  off  her  long  enough  to 
make  his  entries  in  the  jail  record  and  to  see  that  he 
had  all  his  mittimuses  in  proper  order. 

The  prisoners,  standing  there  in  a  haggard  row, 
wore  the  same  clothes  they  had  had  on  when  they  ap- 
peared in  court  for  sentence  a  few  weeks  before;  the 
same  clothes  they  had  had  on  when  arrested.  None  of 
Jtbem,  of  course,  had  any  baggage.  The  little  trinkets 


72        THE   TURN   OF   THE   BALANCE 

they  Had  somehow  accumulated  while  in  jail  they  Had 
distributed  that  afternoon  among  their  friends  who  re- 
mained behind  in  the  steel  cages;  all  they  had  in  the 
world  they  had  on  their  backs.  Most  of  them  were 
dressed  miserably.  Gunning,  indeed,  who  had  been 
lying  in  jail  since  the  previous  June,  wore  a  straw  hat, 
which  made  him  so  absurd  that  the  Kid  laughed  when 
he  saw  him,  and  said : 

"That's  a  swell  lid  youVe  got  on  there.  Gunny,  my 
boy.  I'm  proud  to  fill  in  with  your  mob." 

Gunning  tried  to  smile,  and  his  face,  already  white 
with  the  prison  pallor,  seemed  to  be  made  more  ghastly 
by  the  mockery  of  mirth. 

The  Kid  was  well  dressed,  as  well  dressed  as  Graves, 
who  still  wore  the  good  clothes  he  had  always  loved. 
Graves  was  white,  too,  but  not  as  yet  with  the  prison 
pallor.  He  tried  to  bear  himself  bravely;  he  did  not 
wish  to  break  down  before  his  companions,  all  of  whom 
had  longer  sentences  to  serve  than  he.  He  dreaded  the 
ride  through  the  familiar  streets  where  a  short  time  be- 
fore he  had  walked  in  careless  liberty,  full  of  the  joy 
and  hope  and  ambition  of  youth.  He  knew  that  count- 
less memories  would  stalk  those  streets,  rising  up  un- 
expectedly at  every  corner,  following  him  to  the  station 
with  mows  and  jeers ;  he  tried  to  bear  himself  bravely, 
and  he  did  succeed  in  bearing  himself  grimly,  but  he 
had  an  aching  lump  in  his  throat  that  would  not  let 
him  speak.  It  had  been  there  ever  since  that  hour  in 
the  afternoon  when  his  mother  had  squeezed  her  face 
between  the  bars  of  his  cell  to  kiss  him  good-by  again 
and  again.  The  prison  had  been  strangely  still  while 
she  was  there,  and  for  a  long  time  after  she  went  even 
the  Kid  had  been  quiet  and  had  forgotten  his  joshing 


THE   TURN   OF   THE   BALANCE        73 

and  his  ribaldry.  Graves  had  tried  to  be  brave  for  his 
mother*s  sake,  and  now  he  tried  to  be  brave  for  appear- 
ances* sake.  He  envied  Delaney  and  the  negro,  who 
took  it  all  stolidly,  and  he  might  have  envied  the  Kid, 
who  took  it  all  humorously,  if  it  had  not  been  for  what 
the  Kid  had  said  to  him  that  afternoon  about  his  own 
mother.  But  now  the  Kid  was  cheerful  again,  and  kept 
up  the  spirits  of  all  of  them.  To  Graves  it  was  like 
some  horrible  dream ;  everything  in  the  room — Banner, 
the  turnkeys,  the  exhibit  of  jailer's  instruments  on  the 
wall — was  unreal  to  him — everything  save  the  hat-band 
that  hurt  his  temples,  and  the  aching  lump  in  his  throat. 
His  eyes  began  to  smart,  his  vision  was  blurred;  in- 
stinctively he  started  to  lift  his  hand  to  draw  his  hat 
farther  down  on  his  forehead,  but  something  jerked, 
and  Schypalski  moved  suddenly;  then  he  remembered 
the  handcuffs.  The  Pole  was  dumb  under  it  all,  but 
Graves  knew  how  Schypalski  had  felt  that  afternoon 
when  the  young  wife  whom  he  had  married  but  six 
months  before  was  there ;  he  had  wept  and  grown  mad 
until  he  clawed  at  the  bars  that  separated  them,  and 
then  he  had  mutely  pressed  his  face  against  them  and 
kissed  the  young  wife's  lips,  just  as  Graves's  mother 
had  kissed  him.  And  then  the  young  wife  would  not 
leave,  and  Banner  had  to  come  and  drag  her  away 
across  the  cement  floor. 

Johnson  was  stupefied ;  he  had  not  known  until  that 
afternoon  that  he  was  to  be  taken  away  so  soon,  and 
his  wife  had  not  known ;  she  was  to  bring  the  children 
on  the  next  day  to  see  him.  For  an  hour  Johnson  had 
been  on  the  point  of  saying  something ;  his  lips  would 
move,  and  he  would  lift  his  eyes  to  Banner,  but  he 
seemed  afraid  to  speak. 


74        THE  TURN   OF  THE   BALANCE 

Meanwhile,  Banner  was  making  his  entries  and  look- 
ing over  his  commitment  papers.  The  Kid  had  begun 
to  talk  with  Deacon  Samuel.  He  and  the  Deacon 
had  been  working  together  and  had  been  arrested  for 
the  same  crime,  but  Danner  had  separated  them  in  the 
jail  so  they  could  not  converse,  and  they  were  together 
now  for  the  first  time  since  their  arrest.  The  Kid  bent 
his  body  forward  and  leaned  out  of  the  line  to  look 
down  at  the  Deacon.  The  old  thief  was  smooth-faced 
and  wore  gold-rimmed  spectacles.  When  the  Kid 
caught  his  mild,  solemn  eye,  looking  out  benignly  from 
behind  his  glasses,  a  smile  spread  over  his  face,  and 
he  said : 

"Well,  old  pard,  we're  fixed  for  the  next  five-spot." 

"Yes,"  said  the  Deacon. 

"How  was  it  pulled  off  for  you  ?"  asked  the  Kid. 

"Oh,  it  was  the  same  old  thing  over  again,"  replied 
the  Deacon.  "They  had  us  lagged  before  the  trial,  but 
they  had  to  make  a  flash  of  some  kind,  so  they  put  up 
twelve  suckers  and  then  they  put  a  rapper  up,  and  that 
settled  it." 

"There  was  nothing  to  it,"  said  the  Kid,  in  a  tone 
that  acquiesced  in  all  the  Deacon  had  been  saying.  "It 
was  that  way  with  me.  They  were  out  chewing  the  rag 
for  five  minutes,  then  they  comes  in,  hands  the  stiff  to 
the  old  bloke  in  the  rock,  and  he  hands  it  to  quills,  who 
reads  it  to  me,  and  then  the  old  punk-hunter  made  his 
spiel." 

"Did  he?"  said  the  Deacon,  interested.  "He  didn't 
to  me ;  he  just  slung  it  at  me  in  a  lump." 

"Did  Snaggles  plant  the  slum  ?" 

"Naw,"  said  the  Deacon,  "the  poke  was  cold  and  the 
thimble  was  a  phoney." 

r 


THE   TURN   OF   THE    BALANCE        75 

''Je's,"  exclaimed  the  Kid.  "I  never  got  wise !  Well, 
then  there  was  no  chance  for  him  to  spring  us." 

"No." 

*Tt's  tough  to  fall  for  a  dead  one,"  mused  the  Kid. 

The  other  prisoners  had  been  respectfully  silent  while 
these  two  thieves  compared  notes,  but  their  conversa- 
tion annoyed  Danner.  He  could  not  understand  what 
they  were  saying,  and  this  angered  him,  and  besides, 
their  talking  interfered  with  his  entries,  for  he  was  ex- 
cessively stupid. 

"They  gave  me  a  young  mouthpiece,"  the  Kid  was 
beginning,  when  Danner  raised  his  head  and  said : 

"Now  you  fellows  cut  that  out,  do  you  hear  ?  I  want 
to  get  my  work  done  and  start." 

*T  beg  your  pardon,  papa,"  said  the  Kid ;  "we're 
anxious  to  start,  too.  Did  you  engage  a  lower  berth 
forme?" 

The  line  of  miserable  men  laughed,  not  with  mirth" 
so  much  as  for  the  sake  of  any  diversion,  and  at  the 
laugh  Danner's  face  and  neck  colored  a  deeper  red. 
The  Kid  saw  this  change  in  color  and  went  on : 

"Please  don't  laugh,  gentlemen;  you're  disturbing 
the  main  screw."  And  then,  lifting  his  eyebrows,  he 
leaned  forward  a  little  and  said:  "Can't  I  help  you, 
papa  ?" 

Danner  paid  no  attention,  but  he  was  rapidly  grow- 
ing angry. 

"I'd  be  glad  to  sling  your  ink  for  you,  papa,"  the  Kid' 
went  on,  "and  anyway  you'd  better  splice  yourself  in 
the  middle  of  the  line  before  we  start,  or  you  might 
get  lost.  You  know  you're  not  used  to  traveling  or  to 
the  ways  of  the  world — " 

"Cheese  it,  Kid,"  said  the  Deacon  v^arningly.    But 


*j6        THE  TURN   OF  THE   BALANCE 

the  spirit  of  deviltry  which  he  had  never  been  able  to 
resist,  and  indeed  had  never  tried  very  hard  to  resist, 
>vas  upon  the  Kid,  and  he  went  on : 

**Deac,  pipe  the  preacher  clothes!  And  the  brand 
new  kicks,  and  the  mush !  They  must  have  put  him  on 
the  nut  for  ten  ninety-eight." 

"He'll  soak  you  with  a  sap  if  you  don't  cheese  it," 
said  the  Deacon. 

"Oh,  no,  a  nice  old  pappy  guy  like  him  wouldn't, 
would  you  ?"  the  Kid  persisted.  "He  knows  I'm  speak- 
ing for  his  good.  I  want  him  to  chain  himself  to  us 
so's  he  won't  get  lost ;  if  he'd  get  away  and  fall  off  the 
rattler,  he'd  never  catch  us  again." 

"Well,  I  could  catch  you  all  right,"  said  Banner, 
stopping  and  looking  up. 

"Why,  my  dear  boy,'*  said  the  Kid,  "you  couldn't 
track  an  elephant  through  the  snow." 

The  line  laughed  again,  even  the  under-turnkeys 
could  not  repress  their  smiles.  But  Banner  made  a 
great  effort  that  showed  in  the  changing  hues  of  scarlet 
that  swept  over  his  face,  and  he  choked  down  his  anger. 
He  put  on  his  overcoat  and  picked  up  his  satchel,  and 
said: 

"Come  on,  now." 

Utter  unlocked  the  outer  doors,  and  the  line  of  men 
filed  out. 

"Good-by,  Bud,"  the  Kid  called  to  Utter.  "If  you 
ever  get  down  to  the  dump,  look  me  up." 

The  others  bade  Utter  good-by,  for  they  all  liked 
him,  and  as  the  line  shuffled  down  the  stone  steps  the 
men  eagerly  inhaled  the  fresh  air  they  had  not  breathed 
for  weeks,  save  for  the  few  minutes  consumed  in  going 
over  to  the  court-house  and  back,  and  a  thrill  of  glad- 


rFHE   TURN   OF  THE   BALANCE        77 

ness  momentarily  ran  through  the  line.  Then  the  Kid 
called  out : 

"Hold  on,  Banner!" 

He  halted  suddenly,  and  so  jerked  the  whole  line  to 
an  abrupt  standstill.  "Fve  left  my  mackintosh  in  my 
room !" 

*'U  you  don't  shut  up,  I'll  smash  your  jaw !" 

The  Kid's  laugh  rang  out  in  the  air. 

"Yes,  that'd  be  just  about  your  size !"  he  said. 

Danner  turned  quickly  toward  the  Kid,  but  just  at 
that  instant  a  dark  fluttering  form  flew  out  of  the  misty 
gloom  and  enveloped  Schypalski ;  it  was  his  wife,  who 
had  been  waiting  all  the  afternoon  outside  the  jail.  She 
clung  to  the  Pole,  who  was  as  surprised  as  any  of  them, 
and  she  wept  and  kissed  him  in  her  Slavonic  fashion, — 
wept  and  kissed  as  only  the  Slavs  can  weep  and  kiss. 
Then  Danner,  when  he  realized  what  had  occurred, 
seized  her  and  flung  her  aside. 

"You  damn  bitch!"  he  said.  "I'll  show  you!" 

"That's  right,  Danner,"  said  the  Kid.  "You've  got 
some  one  your  size  now !  Soak  her  again." 

Danner  whirled,  his  anger  loose  now,  and  struck  the 
Kid  savagely  in  the  face.  The  line  thrilled  through  its 
entire  length;  wild,  vague  hopes  of  freedom  suddenly 
blazed  within  the  breasts  of  these  men,  and  they  tugged 
at  the  chains  that  bound  them.  Utter,  watching  from 
the  door,  ran  down  the  walk,  and  Danner  drew  his  re- 
volver. 

"Get  into  that  wagon!"  he  shouted,  and  then  he 
hurled  after  them  another  mouthful  of  the  oaths  he 
always  had  ready.  The  little  sensation  ended,  the  hope 
fell  dead,  and  the  prisoners  moved  doggedly  on.  In  a 
second  the  Kid  had  recovered  himself,  and  then,  speak- 


7^        THE   TURN   OF   THE   BALANCE 

ing  thickly,  for  the  blood  in  his  mouth,  he  said  in  a 
low  voice : 

"Danner,  you  coward,  I'll  serve  you  out  for  that,  if 
I  get  the  chair  for  it !" 

It  was  all  still  there  in  the  gloom  and  the  misty  rain, 
save  for  the  shuffle  of  the  feet,  the  occasional  click  of 
a  handcuff  chain,  and  presently  the  sobbing  of  the 
Polish  woman  rising  from  the  wet  ground.  Danner 
hustled  his  line  along,  and  a  moment  later  they  were 
clambering  up  the  steps  of  the  patrol  wagon. 

"Well,  for  God's  sake!"  exclaimed  the  driver,  "I 
thought  you'd  never  get  here!  Did  you  want  to  keep 
these  horses  standing  out  all  night  in  the  wet  ?" 

The  men  took  their  seats  inside,  those  at  the  far  end 
having  to  hold  their  hands  across  the  wagon  because 
they  were  chained  together,  and  the  wagon  jolted  and 
lurched  as  the  driver  started  his  team  and  went  bowl- 
ing away  for  the  station.  The  Pole  was  weeping. 

**The  poor  devil!"  said  the  pickpocket.  "That's  a 
pretty  little  broad  he  has.  Can't  you  fellows  do  some- 
thing for  him  ?  Give  him  a  cigarette — or — a  chew — or 
— something."  Their  resources  of  comfort  were  so  few 
that  the  Kid  could  think  of  nothing  more  likely. 

Just  behind  the  patrol  wagon  came  a  handsome 
brougham,  whose  progress  for  an  instant  through  the 
street  which  saw  so  few  equipages  of  its  rank  had  been 
stayed  by  the  patrol  wagon,  moving  heavily  about  be- 
fore it  started.  The  occupants  of  the  brougham  had 
seen  the  line  come  out  of  the  jail,  had  seen  it  halt,  had 
seen  Danner  fling  the  Polish  woman  aside  and  strike 
the  pickpocket  in  the  face;  they  had  seen  the  men 
hustled  into  the  patrol  wagon,  and  now,  as  it  followed 
after,  Elizabeth  Ward  heard  a  voice  call  impudently : 

**A11  aboard  for  the  stir  \" 


IX 


The  patrol  wagon  bowled  rapidly  onward,  and  the 
brougham  followed  rapidly  behind.  The  early  darkness 
of  the  winter  afternoon  was  enveloping  the  world,  and 
in  the  damp  and  heavy  air  the  roar  of  the  city  was  in- 
tensified. The  patrol  wagon  turned  into  Franklin  Street 
and  disappeared  in  the  confusion  of  vehicles.  The  street 
was  crowded ;  enormous  trucks  clung  obstinately  to  the 
car  tracks  and  only  wrenched  themselves  away  when 
the  clamor  of  the  gongs  became  desperate,  their  drivers 
swearing  at  the  motormen,  flinging  angry  glances  at 
them.  The  trolley-cars  swept  by,  filled  with  shop-girls, 
clerks,  working-men,  business  men  hanging  to  straps, 
reading  evening  papers  in  the  brilliant  electric  lights ; 
men  clung  to  the  broad  rear  platforms ;  at  every  cross- 
ing others  attached  themselves  to  these  dark  masses  of 
humanity,  swarming  like  insects.  The  sidewalks  were 
crowded,  and,  as  far  as  one  could  see,  umbrellas  bal- 
anced in  the  glistening  mist. 

The  brougham  of  the  Wards  succeeded  presently  in 
crossing  Franklin  Street. 

"They  were  taking  them  to  the  penitentiary!"  said 
Elizabeth,  speaking  for  the  first  time. 

*T  presume  they  were,"  said  her  mother. 

"Harry  Graves  was  among  them,"  Elizabeth  went 
on,  staring  widely  before  her,  her  tone  low  and  level. 

Mrs.  Ward  turned  her  head. 
79 


8o        THE  TURN   OF  THE   BALANCE 

"I  saw  his  face — it  stood  out  among  the  rest.  I  can 
never  forget  it !" 

She  sat  with  her  gloved  hands  in  her  lap.  Her 
mother  did  not  speak,  but  she  looked  at  her. 

"And  that  man — that  big,  brutal  man,  throwing  that 
woman  down,  and  then  striking  that  man  in  the  face !" 

Mrs.  Ward,  not  liking  to  encourage  her  daughter's 
mood,  did  not  speak. 

*'Oh,  it  makes  me  sick !" 

Elizabeth  stretched  forth  her  hand,  drew  a  cut-glass 
bottle  from  its  case  beside  the  little  carriage  clock  and 
mirror,  and,  sinking  back  in  her  cushioned  corner,  in- 
haled the  stimulating  odor  of  the  salts.  Then  her 
mother  stiffened  and  said : 

*T  don't  know  what  Barker  means,  driving  us  down 
this  way  where  we  have  to  endure  such  sights.  You 
must  control  yourself,  dear,  and  not  allow  disagreeable 
things  to  get  on  your  nerves." 

*'But  think  of  that  poor  boy,  and  the  man  who  was 
struck,  and  that  woman !" 

*Trobably  they  can  not  feel  as  keenly  as — " 

"And  think  of  all  those  men !  Oh,  their  faces !  Their 
faces !  I  can  never  forget  them !" 

Elizabeth  continued  to  inhale  the  salts,  her  mind 
deeply  intent  on  the  scene  she  had  just  witnessed. 
They  were  drawing  near  to  Claybourne  Avenue  now, 
and  Mrs.  Ward's  spirits  visibly  improved  at  the  sight 
of  its  handsome  lamp  posts  and  the  carriages  flashing 
by,  their  rubber  tires  rolling  softly  on  the  wet  asphalt. 

"Well,"  she  exclaimed,  settling  back  on  the  cush- 
ions, "this  is  better!  I  don't  know  what  Barker  was 
thinking  of !  He's  very  stupid  at  times !" 

The  carriage  joined  the  procession  of  other  equi- 


THE   TURN    OF   THE    BALANCE        8i 

pages  of  its  kind.  They  had  left  the  street  at  the  end  of 
which  could  be  seen  the  court-house  and  the  jail.  The 
jail  was  blazing  now  with  light,  its  iron  bars  showing 
black  across  its  illumined  windows.  And  beyond  the 
jail,  as  if  kept  at  bay  by  it,  a  huddle  of  low  buildings 
stretched  crazily  along  Mosher's  Lane,  a  squalid  street 
that  preserved  in  irony  the  name  of  one  of  the  city's 
earliest,  richest  and  most  respectable  citizens,  long  since 
deceased.  The  Lane  twinkled  with  the  bright  lights  of 
saloons,  the  dim  lights  of  pawnshops,  the  red  lights  of 
brothels — the  slums,  dark,  foul,  full  of  disease  and 
want  and  crime.  Along  the  streets  passed  and  repassed 
shadowy,  fugitive  forms,  negroes,  Jews,  men,  and 
women,  and  children,  ragged,  unkempt,  pinched  by 
cold  and  hunger.  But  above  all  this,  above  the  turmoil 
of  Franklin  Street  and  the  reeking  life  of  the  slums 
behind  it,  above  the  brilliantly  lighted  jail,  stood  the 
court-house,  gray  in  the  dusk,  its  four  corners  shoulder- 
ing out  the  sky,  its  low  dome  calmly  poised  above  the 
town. 


X 


"And  how  is  your  dear  mother?'*  Miss  Masters 
turned  to  Eades  and  wrought  her  wry  face  into  a  smile. 
Her  black  eyes,  which  she  seemed  able  to  make  sparkle 
at  will,  were  fixed  on  him ;  her  black-gloved  hands  were 
crossed  primly  in  her  lap,  as  she  sat  erect  on  the  stiff 
chair  Elizabeth  Ward  had  given  her. 

"She's  pretty  well,  thanks,"  said  Eades.  He  had  al- 
ways disliked  Miss  Masters,  but  he  disliked  her  more 
than  ever  this  Sunday  afternoon  in  April  when  he 
found  her  at  the  Wards'.  It  was  a  very  inauspicious 
beginning  of  his  spring  vacation,  to  which,  after  his 
hard  work  of  the  winter  term,  he  had  looked  forward 
with  sentiments  as  tender  as  the  spring  itself,  just  be- 
ginning to  show  in  the  sprightly  green  that  dotted  the 
maple  trees  along  Claybourne  Avenue. 

"And  your  sister  ?" 

"She  is  very  well,  too." 

"Dear  me !"  the  ugly  little  woman  ran  on,  speaking 
with  the  affectation  she  had  cultivated  for  years  enough 
to  make  it  natural  at  last  to  her.  "It  has  been  so  long 
since  I've  seen  either  of  them!  I  told  mama  to-day 
that  I  didn't  go  to  see  even  my  old  friends  any  more. 
Of  course,"  she  added,  lowering  her  already  low  tone 
to  a  level  of  hushed  deprecation,  "we  never  go  to  see 
any  of  the  new-comers ;  and  lately  there  are  so  many, 
one  hardly  knows  the  old  town.  Still,  I  f^l  that  we  of 

82 


9 


THE   TURN   OF   THE   BALANCE        S3 

the  old  families  understand  each  other  and  are  sufficient 
unto  ourselves,  as  it  were,,  even  if  we  allow  years  to 
elapse  without  seeing  each  other — don't  you,  dear?" 
She  turned  briskly  toward  Elizabeth. 

Eades  had  hoped  to  find  Elizabeth  alone,  and  he  felt 
it  to  be  peculiarly  annoying  that  Miss  Masters,  whose 
exclusiveness  kept  her  from  visiting  even  her  friends  of 
the  older  families,  should  have  chosen  for  her  exception 
this  particular  Sunday  afternoon  out  of  all  the  other 
Sunday  afternoons  at  her  command.  He  had  found  it 
impossible  to  talk  with  Elizabeth  in  the  way  he  had 
expected  to  talk  to  her,  and  he  was  so  out  of  sorts  that 
he  could  not  talk  to  Miss  Masters,  though  that  maiden 
aristocrat  of  advancing  years,  strangely  stimulated  by 
his  presence,  seemed  efficient  enough  to  do  all  the  talk- 
ing herself. 

Elizabeth  was  trying  to  find  a  position  that  would 
give  her  comfort,  without  denoting  any  lapse  from  the 
dignity  of  posture  due  a  family  that  had  been  known 
in  that  city  for  nearly  fifty  years.  But  repose  was  im- 
possible to  her  that  afternoon,  and  she  nervously  kept 
her  hands  in  motion,  now  grasping  the  back  of  her 
chair,  now  knitting  them  in  her  lap,  now  raising  one  to 
her  brow ;  once  she  was  on  the  point  of  clasping  her 
knee,  but  this  impulse  frightened  her  so  that  she 
quickly  pressed  her  belt  down,  drew  a  deep  breath, 
resolutely  sat  erect,  crossed  her  hands  unnaturally  in 
her  lap,  and  smiled  courageously  at  her  visitors.  Eades 
noted  how  firm  her  hands  were,  and  how  white ;  they 
were  indicative  of  strength  and  character.  She  held 
her  head  a  little  to  one  side,  keeping  up  her  pale  srriile 
of  interest  for  Miss  Masters,  and  Eades  thought  that 
he  should  always  think  of  her  as  she  sat  thus,  in  her 


84        THE   TURN   OF  THE   BALANCE 

soft  blue  dress,  her  eyes  winking  rapidly,  her  dark  hair 
parting  of  its  own  accord. 

**And  how  do  you  like  your  new  work,  Mr.  Eades  ?" 
Miss  Masters  was  asking  him,  and  then,  without  wait- 
ing for  a  reply,  she  went  on :  "Do  you  know,  I  believe 
I  have  not  seen  you  since  your  election  to  congratulate 
you.  But  we've  been  keeping  watch;  we  have  seen 
what  the  papers  said." 

She  smiled  suggestively,  and  Eades  inclined  his  head 
to  acknowledge  her  tribute. 

"I  think  we  are  to  be  congratulated  on  having  you 
in  that  position.  I  think  it  is  very  encouraging  to  find 
some  of  our  best  people  in  public  office." 

There  was  a  tribute  surely  in  the  emphasis  she  placed 
on  the  adjective,  and  Eades  inclined  his  head  again. 

"I  really  think  it  was  noble  in  you  to  accept.  It  must 
be  very  disagreeable  to  be  brought  in  contact  with — 
you  know !"  She  smiled  and  nodded  as  if  she  could  not 
speak  the  word.  **And  you  have  been  so  brave  and 
courageous  through  it  all — you  are  surely  to  be  ad- 
mired!" 

Eades  felt  suddenly  that  Miss  Masters  was  not  so 
bad  after  all;  he  relished  this  appreciation,  which  he 
took  as  an  evidence  of  the  opinion  prevailing  in  the 
best  circles.  He  recalled  a  conversation  he  had  lately 
had  with  Elizabeth  on  this  very  subject,  and,  with  a 
sudden  impulse  to  convict  her,  he  said : 

"I'm  afraid  Miss  Ward  will  hardly  agree  with  you." 

Miss  Masters  turned  to  Elizabeth  with  an  expression 
of  incredulity  and  surprise. 

"Oh,  I  am  sure — "  she  began. 

"I  believe  she  considers  me  harsh  and  cruel,"  Eades 
went  on,  smiling,  but  looking  intently  at  Elizabeth. 


THE   TURN    OF,   THE    BALANCE        85 

"Oh,  Mr.  Eades  is  mistaken,"  she  said ;  *T'm  sure  I 
agree  with  all  the  nice  things  that  are  said  of  him." 

She  detested  the  weakness  of  her  quick  retreat ;  and 
she  detested  more  the  immediate  conviction  that  it 
came  from  a  certain  fear  of  Eades.  She  was  beginning 
to  feel  a  kind  of  mastery  in  his  mere  presence,  so  that 
when  she  was  near  him  she  felt  powerless  to  oppose 
him.  The  arguments  she  always  had  ready  for  others, 
or  for  him — when  he  was  gone — seemed  invariably  to 
fail  her  when  he  was  near;  she  had  even  gone  to  the 
length  of  preparing  them  in  advance  for  him,  but  when 
he  came,  when  she  saw  him,  she  could  not  even  state 
them,  and  when  she  tried,  they  seemed  so  weak  and 
puerile  and  ineffectual  as  to  deserve  nothing  more  seri- 
ous than  the  tolerant  smile  with  which  he  received  and 
disposed  of  them.  And  now,  as  this  weakness  came 
over  her,  she  felt  a  fear,  not  for  any  of  her  principles, 
which,  after  all,  were  but  half-formed  and  superficial, 
but  a  fear  for  herself,  for  her  own  being,  and  she  was 
suddenly  grateful  for  Miss  Masters's  presence.  Still, 
Eades  and  Miss  Masters  seemed  to  be  waiting,  and  she 
must  say  something. 

'Tt's  only  this,"  she  said.  "Not  long  ago  I  saw  offi- 
cers taking  some  prisoners  to  the  penitentiary.  I  can 
never  forget  the  faces  of  those  men." 

Over  her  sensitive  countenance  there  swept  the  mem- 
ory of  a  pain,  and  she  had  the  effect  of  sinking  in  her 
straight  chair.  But  Eades  was  gazing  steadily  at  her, 
a  smile  on  his  strong  face,  and  Miss  Masters  was 
saying : 

"But,  dear  me!  The  penitentiary  is  the  place  for 
such  people,  isn't  it,  Mr.  Eades  ?" 

"I  think  so/'  said  Eades.  His  eyes  were  still  fixed  on 


86        THE  TURN   OF   THE   BALANCE 

Elizabeth,  and  she  looked  away,  groping  in  her  mind 
for  some  other  subject.  Just  then  the  hall  bell  rang. 

Elizabeth  was  glad,  for  it  was  Marriott,  and  as  she 
took  his  hand  and  said  simply,  "Ah,  Gordon,"  the  light 
faded  from  Eades's  face. 

Marriott's  entrance  dissolved  the  situation  of  a 
moment  before.  He  brought  into  the  drawing-room, 
dimming  now  in  the  fading  Hght,  a  new  atmosphere, 
something  of  the  air  of  the  spring.  Miss  Masters 
greeted  him  with  a  manner  divided  between  a  certain 
distance,  because  Marriott  had  not  been  born  in  that 
city,  and  a  certain  necessary  approach  to  his  mere 
deserts  as  a  man.  Marriott  did  not  notice  this,  but 
dropped  on  to  the  divan.  Elizabeth  had  taken  a  more 
comfortable  chair.  Marriott,  plainly,  was  not  in  the 
formal  Sunday  mood,  just  as  he  was  not  in  the  formal 
Sunday  dress.  He  had  taken  in  Eades's  frock-coat  and 
white  waistcoat  at  a  glance,  and  then  looked  down  at 
his  own  dusty  boots. 

"I've  been  hard  at  work  to-day,  Elizabeth,"  he  said, 
turning  to  her  with  a  smile. 

"Working!  You  must  remember  the  Sabbath  day 
to  keep  it — " 

"The  law  wasn't  made  for  lawyers,  was  it,  John?" 
He  appealed  suddenly  to  Eades,  whose  conventionality 
he  always  liked  to  shock,  and  Elizabeth  smiled,  and 
Eades  became  very  dignified. 

"I've  been  out  to  see  our  old  friends,  the  Koerners," 
Marriott  went  on. 

"Oh,  tell  me  about  them!"  said  Elizabeth,  leaning 
forward  with  eager  interest.  "How  is  Gusta  ?" 

"Gusta's  well,  and  prettier  than  ever.  Jove !  What  a 
beauty  that  girl  is !" 


THE  TURN   OF  THE   BALANCE        87 

'Isn't  she  pretty?"  said  Elizabeth.  "She  was  a  de- 
light in  the  house  for  that  very  reason.  And  how  is 
poor  old  Mr.  Koerner — and  all  of  them?" 

''Well,"  said  Marriott,  "Koerner's  amputated  leg  is 
<[\  knotted  up  with  rheumatism." 

Miss  Masters's  dark  face  was  pinched  in  a  scowl. 

"And  Archie's  in  jail." 

"In  jail!"  Elizabeth  dropped  back  in  her  chair. 

"Yes,  in  jail." 

"Why!  What  for?" 

"Well,  he  seems  to  belong  to  a  gang  that  was  ar- 
rested day  before  yesterday  for  something  or  other." 

"There,  Mr.  Eades,"  said  EHzabeth  suddenly,  "there 
now,  you  must  let  Archie  Koerner  go." 

"Oh,  I'll  not  let  John  get  a  chance  at  him,"  said 
Marriott.  "He's  charged  with  a  misdemeanor  only — 
he'll  go  to  the  workhouse,  if  he  goes  anywhere." 

"And  you'll  defend  him?" 

"Oh,  I  suppose  so,"  said  Marriott  wearily.  "You've 
given  me  a  whole  family  of  clients,  Elizabeth.  I  went 
out  to  see  the  old  man  about  his  case — I  think  we'll  try 
it  early  this  term." 

"These  Koerners  are  a  family  in  whom  I've  been  in- 
terested," Elizabeth  suddenly  thought  to  explain  to 
Miss  Masters,  and  then  she  told  them  of  Gusta,  of 
old  Koerner's  accident,  and  of  Archie's  career  as  a 
soldier. 

"They've  had  a  hard  winter  of  it,"  said  Martiott. 
"The  old  man,  of  course,  can't  work,  and  Archie,  by 
his  experience  as  a  soldier,  seems  to  have  been  totally 
unfitted  for  everything — except  shooting — and  shoot- 
ing is  against  the  law." 

Now  that  the  conversation  had  taken  this  turn.  Miss 


88        THE  TURN   OF  THE   BALANCE 

Masters  moved  to  go.  She  bade  Marriott  farewell 
coldly,  and  Eades  warmly,  and  Elizabeth  went  with 
her  into  the  hall.  Eades  realized  that  all  hope  of  a 
tete-a-tete  with  Elizabeth  had  departed,  and  he  and 
Marriott  not  long  afterward  left  to  walk  down  town  to- 
gether. The  sun  was  warm  for  the  first  time  in  months, 
and  the  hope  of  the  spring  had  brought  the  people  out 
of  doors.  Clayboume  Avenue  was  crowded  with  car- 
riages in  which  families  solemnly  enjoyed  their  Sunday 
afternoon  drives,  as  they  had  enjoyed  their  stupefying 
dinners  of  roast  beef  four  hours  before.  Electric  auto- 
mobiles purred  past,  and  now  and  then  a  huge  touring 
car,  its  driver  in  his  goggles  resembling  some  demon, 
plunged  savagely  along,  its  horn  honking  hoarsely  at 
every  street  crossing.  The  sidewalks  were  thronged 
with  pedestrians,  young  men  whose  lives  had  no  other 
diversion  than  to  parade  in  their  best  clothes  or  stand 
on  dusty  down-town  corners,  smoke  cigars  and  watch 
the  girls  that  tilted  past. 

"That  Miss  Masters  is  a  fool,"  said  Marriott,  when 
they  had  got  away  from  the  house. 

"Yes,  she  is,"  Eades  assented.  "She  was  boring  Miss 
Ward  to  death." 

"Poor  Elizabeth !"  said  Marriott  with  a  little  laugh. 
"She  is  so  patient,  and  people  do  afflict  her  so." 

Eades  did  not  like  the  way  in  which  Marriott  could 
speak  of  Elizabeth,  any  more  than  he  liked  to  hear 
Elizabeth  address  Marriott  as  Gordon. 

"I  see  the  Courier  gave  you  a  fine  send-off  this  morn- 
ing," Marriott  went  on.  "What  a  record  you  made! 
Not  a  single  acquittal  the  whole  term !" 

Eades  made  no  reply.  He  was  wondering  if  Eliza- 
beth had  seen  the  Courier's  editorial.    In  the  morning 


THE   TURN   OF   THE   BALANCE        89 

he  thought  he  would  send  her  a  bunch  of  violets,  and 
Tuesday — 

"Your  course  is  most  popular,"  Marriott  went  on. 
And  Eades  looked  at  him ;  he  could  not  always  under- 
stand Marriott,  and  he  did  not  like  to  have  him  speak 
of  his  course  as  if  he  had  deliberately  chosen  it  as  a 
mere  matter  of  policy. 

"It's  the  right  course,"  he  said  significantly. 

"Oh,  I  suppose  so,"  Marriott  repHed.  "Still — I  really 
can't  congratulate  you  when  I  think  of  those  poor 
devils—" 

"I  haven't  a  bit  of  sympathy  for  them,"  said  Eades 
coldly.  This,  he  thought,  was  where  Elizabeth  got 
those  strange,  improper  notions.  Marriott  should  not 
be  permitted — 

Just  then,  in  an  automobile  tearing  by,  they  saw  Dick 
Ward,  and  Eades  suddenly  recalled  a  scene  he  had 
witnessed  in  the  club  the  day  before. 

"That  young  fellow's  going  an  awful  gait,"  he  said 
suddenly. 

"Who,  Dick?" 

"Yes,  I  saw  him  in  the  club  yesterday — " 

"I  know,"  said  Marriott.  "It's  a  shame.  He's  a  nice 
little  chap." 

"Can't  you  do  something  for  him  ?  He  seems  to  like 
you." 

"What  can  I  do?" 

"Well,  can't  you— speak  to  him?" 

"I  never  could  preach,"  said  Marriott. 

"Well,"  said  Eades  helplessly,  "it's  too  bad." 

"Yes,"  said  Marriott ;  "it  would  break  their  hearts — 
Ward's  and  Elizabeth's." 


XI 


The  Koerners,  indeed,  as  Marriott  said,  had  had  a 
hard  winter.  The  old  man,  sustained  at  first  by  a  fool- 
ish optimism,  had  expected  that  his  injury  would  be 
compensated  immediately  by  heavy  damages  from  the 
railroad  he  had  served  so  long.  Marriott  had  begun 
suit,  and  then  the  law  began  the  slow  and  wearisome 
unfolding  of  its  interminable  delays.  Weeks  and 
months  went  by  and  nothing  was  done.  Koerner  sent 
for  Marriott,  and  Marriott  explained — the  attorneys 
for  the  railroad  company  had  filed  a  demurrer,  the 
docket  was  full,  the  case  would  not  be  reached  for  a 
long  time.  Koerner  could  not  understand;  finally,  he 
began  to  doubt  Marriott ;  some  of  his  neighbors,  with 
the  suspicion  natural  to  the  poor,  hinted  that  Marriott 
might  have  been  influenced  by  the  company.  Koerner^s 
leg,  too,  gave  him  incessant  pain.  All  winter  long  he 
was  confined  to  the  house,  and  the  family  grew  tired 
of  his  monotonous  complainings.  To  add  to  this, 
Koerner  was  now  constantly  dunned  by  the  surgeon 
and  by  the  authorities  of  the  hospital ;  the  railroad  re- 
fused to  pay  these  bills  because  Koerner  had  brought 
suit ;  the  bills,  to  a  frugal  German  like  Koerner,  were 
enormous,  appalling. 

The  Koerners,  a  year  before,  had  bought  the  house 
in  which  they  lived,  borrowing  the  money  from  a 
building  and  loan  association.   The  agent  of  the  asso- 

90 


THE   TURN   OF   THE   BALANCE        91 

elation,  who  had  been  so  kind  and  obliging  before  the 
mortgage  was  signed,  was  now  sharp  and  severe;  he 
had  lately  told  Koerner  that  unless  he  met  the  next 
instalment  of  interest  he  would  set  the  family  out  in 
the  street. 

Koerner  had  saved  some  money  from  his  wages, 
small  as  they  were;  but  this  was  going  fast.  During 
the  winter  Mrs.  Koerner,  though  still  depressed  and 
ill,  had  begun  to  do  washings ;  the  water,  splashing  over 
her  legs  from  the  tubs  in  the  cold  wood-shed  day  after 
day,  had  given  her  rheumatism.  Gusta  helped,  of 
course,  but  with  all  they  could  do  it  was  hard  to  keep 
things  going.  Gusta  tried  to  be  cheerful,  but  this  was 
the  hardest  work  of  all ;  she  often  thought  of  the  pleas- 
ant home  of  the  Wards,  and  wished  she  were  back 
there.  She  would  have  gone  back,  indeed,  and  given  her 
father  her  wages,  but  there  was  much  to  do  at  home — 
the  children  to  look  after,  the  house  to  keep,  the  meals 
to  get,  the  washings  to  do,  and  her  father's  leg  to  dress. 
Several  times  she  consulted  Marriott  about  the  legal 
entanglements  into  which  the  family  was  being  drawn ; 
Marriott  was  wearied  with  the  complications — the  dam- 
age suit,  the  mortgage,  the  threatened  actions  for  the 
doctor's  bills.  The  law  seemed  to  be  snarling  the  Koer- 
ners  in  every  one  of  its  meshes,  and  the  family  was  set- 
tling under  a  Teutonic  melancholia. 
'  Just  at  this  time  the  law  touched  the  family  at  an- 
other point — ^Archie  was  arrested.  For  a  while  he  had 
sought  work,  but  his  experience  in  the  army  had  un- 
fitted him  for  every  normal  calling ;  he  had  acquired  a 
taste  for  excitement  and  adventure,  and  no  peaceful 
pursuit  could  content  him.  He  would  not  return  to  the 
army  because  he  had  too  keen  a  memory  of  the  indig- 


92        THE   TURN   OF   THE   BALANCE 

iiities  heaped  on  a  common  soldier  by  officers  who  had 
been  trained  from  youth  to  an  utter  disregard  of  all 
human  relations  save  those  that  were  unreal  and  arti- 
ficial. He  had  learned  but  one  thing  in  the  army,  and 
that  was  to  shoot,  and  he  could  shoot  well.  Somehow 
he  had  secured  a  revolver,  a  large  one,  thirty-eight 
caliber,  and  with  this  he  was  constantly  practising. 

Because  Archie  would  not  work,  Koerner  became 
angry  with  him ;  he  was  constantly  remonstrating  with 
him  and  urging  him  to  get  something  to  do.  Archie 
took  all  his  father's  reproaches  with  his  usual  good 
nature,  but  as  the  winter  wore  slowly  on  and  the 
shadow  of  poverty  deepened  in  the  home,  the  old  man 
became  more  and  more  depressed,  his  treatment  of  his 
son  became  more  and  more  bitter.  Finally  Archie 
stayed  away  from  home  to  escape  scolding.  He  spent 
his  evenings  in  Nussbaum's  saloon,  where,  because  he 
had  been  a  soldier  in  the  Philippines  and  was  attractive 
and  good  looking,  he  was  a  great  favorite  and  pres- 
ently a  leader  of  the  young  men  who  spent  their  even- 
ings there.  These  young  men  were  workers  in  a 
machine  shop ;  they  had  a  baseball  club  called  the  "Vi- 
kings," and  in  summer  played  games  in  the  parks  on 
Sundays.  In  the  winter  they  spent  their  evenings  in 
the  saloon,  the  only  social  center  accessible  to  them; 
here,  besides  playing  pool,  they  drank  beer,  talked 
loudly,  laughed  coarsely,  sang,  and  now  and  then 
fought,  very  much  like  Vikings  indeed. 

Later,  roaming  down  town  to  Market  Place,  Archie 
made  other  acquaintances,  and  these  young  men  were 
even  more  like  Vikings.  They  were  known  as  the 
Market  Place  gang,  and  they  made  their  headquarters 
in  Billy  Deno's  saloon,  though  they  were  well  known  in 


THE   TURN   OF  THE   BALANCE        93 

all  the  little  saloons  around  the  four  sides  of  the  Mar- 
ket. They  were  known,  too,  at  the  police  station, 
which  stood  grimly  overlooking  Market  Place, 
for  they  had  committed  many  petty  raids,  and  most 
of  them  had  served  terms  in  the  workhouse.  One  by 
one  they  were  being  sent  to  the  penitentiary,  a  dis- 
tinction they  seemed  to  prize,  or  which  their  fellows 
seemed  to  prize  in  them  when  they  got  back.  The  gang 
had  certain  virtues, — it  stuck  together;  if  a  member 
was  in  trouble,  the  other  members  were  all  willing  to  do 
anything  to  help  him  out.  Usually  this  willingness  took 
the  form  of  appearing  in  police  court  and  swearing  to 
an  alibi,  but  they  had  done  this  service  so  often  that  the 
police-court  habitues  and  officials  smiled  whenever  they 
appeared.  Their  testimonies  never  convinced  the 
judge ;  but  they  were  imperturbable  and  ever  ready  to 
commit  perjury  in  the  cause. 

When  Archie  was  out  of  money  he  could  not  buy 
cartridges  for  his  revolver,  and  he  discovered  by  chance 
one  afternoon,  when  he  had  drifted  into  a  little  shoot- 
ing gallery,  that  the  proprietor  was  glad  to  give  him 
cartridges  in  return  for  an  exhibition  with  the  revolver, 
for  the  exhibition  drew  a  crowd,  and  the  boozy  sailors 
who  lounged  along  the  Market  in  the  evening  were 
fascinated  by  Archie's  skill  and  forthwith  emulated  it. 
It  was  in  this  way  that  Archie  met  the  members  of  the 
Market  Place  gang,  and  finding  them  stronger,  braver, 
more  enterprising  spirits  than  the  Vikings,  he  became 
one  of  them,  spent  his  days  and  nights  with  them,  and 
visited  Nussbaum's  no  more.  He  became  the  fast 
friend  of  Spud  Healy,  the  leader  of  the  gang,  and  in 
this  way  he  came  to  be  arrested. 

Besides   Archie  and   Spud  Healy,  Red   McGuire, 


94         THE    TURN    OF    THE    BALANCE 

Butch  Corrlgan,  John  Connor  and  Mike  Nailor  were 
arrested.  A  Market  Place  grocer  had  missed  a  box  of 
dried  herrings,  reported  it  to  the  poHce,  and  the  police, 
of  course,  had  arrested  on  suspicion  such  of  the  gang  as 
they  could  find. 

Archie's  arrest  was  a  blow  to  Koerner.  He  viewed 
the  matter  from  the  German  standpoint,  just  as  he 
viewed  everything,  even  after  his  thirty-seven  years  in 
America.  It  was  a  blow  to  his  German  reverence  for 
law,  a  reverence  which  his  own  discouraging  experi- 
ence of  American  law  could  not  impair,  and  it  was  a 
blow  to  his  German  conception  of  parental  authority; 
he  denounced  Archie,  declaring  that  he  would  do  noth- 
ing for  him  even  if  he  could. 

Gusta,  in  the  great  love  she  had  for  Archie,  felt  an 
instant  desire  to  go  to  him,  but  when  she  mentioned 
this,  her  father  turned  on  her  so  fiercely  that  she  did  not 
dare  mention  it  again.  On  Monday  morning,  when  her 
work  was  done,  Gusta,  dressing  herself  in  the  clothes 
she  had  not  often  had  occasion  to  wear  during  the  win- 
ter, stole  out  of  the  house  and  went  down  town, — a 
disobedience  in  which  she  was  abetted  by  her  mother. 
Half  an  hour  later  Gusta  was  standing  bewildered  in 
the  main  entrance  of  the  Market  Place  Police  Station. 
The  wide  hall  was  vacant,  the  old  and  faded  signs  on 
the  walls,  bearing  in  English  and  in  German  instruc- 
tions for  police-comrt  witnesses,  could  not  aid  her. 
From  all  over  the  building  she  heard  noises  of  various 
activities, — the  hum  of  the  police  court,  the  sound  of 
voices,  from  some  near-by  room  a  laugh.  She  went  on 
and  presently  found  an  open  door,  and  within  she  saw 
several  officers  in  uniform,  with  handsome  badges  on 
their  breasts  and  stars  on  the  velvet  collars  of  their 


THE    TURN    OF   THE    BALANCE         95 

coats.  As  she  hesitated  before  this  door,  a  policeman 
noticed  her,  and  his  coarse  face  Hghted  up  with  a  sug- 
gestive expression  as  he  studied  the  curves  of  her  fig- 
ure. He  planted  himself  directly  in  front  of  her,  his 
big  figure  blocking  the  way. 

*  'T'd  like  to  speak  to  my  brother,  if  I  can,"  said 
Gusta.  "He's  arrested." 

She  colored  and  her  eyes  fell.  The  policeman's  eyes 
gleamed. 

"What's  hi*  name.  Miss  ?"  he  asked.  • 

"Archie  Koerner." 

"What's  he  infer?" 

"I  can't  tell  you,  sir." 

The  policeman  looked  at  her  boldly,  and  then  he 
took  her  round  arm  in  his  big  hand  and  turned  her 
toward  the  open  door. 

"Inspector,"  he  said,  "this  girl  wants  to  see  her 
brother.  What's  his  name  ?"  he  asked  again,  turning  to 
Gusta. 

"Koerner,  sir,"  said  Gusta,  speaking  to  the  scowling 
inspector,  "Archie  Koerner." 

Inspector  McFee,  an  old  officer  who  had  been  on  the 
police  force  for  twenty-five  years,  eyed  her  suspicious- 
ly. His  short  hair  was  dappled  with  gray,  and  his  mus- 
tache was  clipped  squarely  and  severely  on  a  level 
with  his  upper  lip.  Gusta  had  even  greater  fear  of 
him  than  she  had  of  the  policeman,  who  now  released 
his  hold  of  her  arm.  Instinctively  she  drew  away  from 
him. 

"Archie  Koerner,  eh?"  said  the  inspector  in  a  gruff 
voice. 

At  the  name,  a  huge  man,  swart  and  hairy,  in  civil- 
ian's dress,  standing  by  one  of  the  big  windows,  turned 


96        THE  TURN   OF   THE   BALANCE 

suddenly  and  glowered  at  Gusta  from  under  thick 
black  eyebrows.  His  hair,  black  and  coarse  and  closely 
clipped,  bristled  almost  low  enough  on  his  narrow  fore- 
head to  meet  his  heavy  brows.  He  had  a  flat  nose,  and 
beneath,  half  encircling  his  broad,  deep  mouth,  was  a 
black  mustache,  stubbed  and  not  much  larger  than  his 
eyebrows.  His  jaw  was  square  and  heavy.  A  gleam 
showed  in  his  small  black  eyes  and  gave  a  curiously 
sinister  aspect  to  his  black  visage. 

''What's  that  about  Koerner?"  he  said,  coming  for- 
ward aggressively.  Gusta  shrank  from  him.  She  felt 
herself  in  the  midst  of  powerful,  angry  foes. 

"You  say  he's  your  brother  ?"  asked  the  inspector. 

"Yes,  sir." 

"What  do  you  want  of  him  ?'* 

"Oh,  I  just  want  to  see  him,  sir,"  Gusta  said.  "I 
just  want  to  talk  to  him  a  minute — that's  all,  sir." 

Her  blue  eyes  were  swimming  with  tears. 

"Hold  on  a  minute,"  said  the  man  of  the  dark  visage. 
He  went  up  to  the  inspector,  whispered  to  him  a  mo- 
ment. The  inspector  listened,  finally  nodded,  then  took 
up  a  tube  that  hung  by  his  desk  and  blew  into  it.  Far 
away  a  whistle  shrilled. 

"Let  this  girl  see  Koerner,"  he  said,  speaking  into 
the  tube,  "in  Kouka's  presence."  Then,  dropping  the 
tube,  he  said  to  Gusta : 

"Go  down-stairs — you  can  see  him." 

The  policeman  took  her  by  the  arm  again,  and  led 
her  down  the  hall  and  down  the  stairs  to  the  turnkey's 
room.  The  turnkey  unlocked  a  heavy  door  and  tugged 
it  open;  inside,  in  a  little  square  vestibule,  Gusta  saw 
a  dim  gas-jet  burning.  The  turnkey  called : 

"Koerner!" 


THE  TURN   OF.  THE   BALANCE        97 

Then  he  turned  to  Gusta  and  said : 

'This  way." 

She  went  timidly  into  the  vestibule  and  found  her- 
self facing  a  heavy  door,  crossed  with  iron  bars.  On 
the  other  side  of  the  bars  was  the  face  of  Archie. 

"Hello,  Gusta,"  he  said. 

She  had  lifted  her  skirts  a  little ;  the  floor  seemed 
to  her  unclean.  The  odor  of  disinfectants,  which,  strong 
as  it  was,  could  not  overpower  the  other  odors  it  was 
intended  to  annihilate,  came  strongly  to  her.  Through 
the  bars  she  had  a  glimpse  of  high  whitewashed  walls, 
pierced  near  the  top  with  narrow  windows  dirty  beyond 
all  hope.  On  the  other  side  was  a  row  of  cells,  their 
barred  doors  now  swinging  open.  Along  the  wall 
miserable  figures  were  stretched  on  a  bench.  Far  back, 
where  the  prison  grew  dark  as  night,  other  figures 
slouched,  and  she  saw  strange,  haggard  faces  peering 
curiously  at  her  out  of  the  gloom. 

"Hello,  Gusta,"  Archie  said. 

She  felt  that  she  should  take  his  hand,  but  she  dis- 
liked to  thrust  it  through  the  bars.  Still  she  did  so. 
In  slipping  her  hand  through  to  take  Archie's  hand  it 
touched  the  iron,  which  was  cold  and  soft  as  if  with 
some  foul  grease. 

"Oh,  Archie,"  she  said,  "what  has  happened  ?" 

"Search  me,"  he  said,  "I  don't  know  what  I'm  here 
for.  Ask  Detective  Kouka  there.  He  run  me  in." 

Gusta  turned.  The  black-visaged  man  was  standing 
beside  her.  Archie  glared  at  the  detective  in  open  ha- 
tred, and  Kouka  sneered  but  controlled  himself,  and 
looked  away  as  if,  after  all,  he  were  far  above  such 
things. 

Then  they  were  silent,  for  Gusta  could  not  speak. 


98        THE  TURN   OF  THE   BALANCE 

"How  did  you  hear  of  the  phich?"  asked  Archie 
presently. 

"Mrs.  Schopfle  was  in — she  told  us,"  replied  Gusta. 

"What  did  the  old  man  say  ?" 

"Oh,  Archie !  He's  awful  mad !" 

Archie  hung  his  head  and  meditatively  fitted  the  toe 
of  his  boot  into  one  of  the  squares  made  by  the  crossed 
bars  at  the  bottom  of  the  door. 

"Say,  Gusta,"  he  said,  "you  tell  him  I'm  in  wrong; 
will  you  ?  Honest  to  God,  I  am !" 

He  raised  his  face  suddenly  aad  held  it  close  to  the 
bars. 

"I  will,  Archie,"  she  said. 

"And  how's  ma?" 

"Oh,  she's  pretty  well."  Gusta  could  not  say  the 
things  she  wished ;  she  felt  the  presence  of  Kouka. 

"Say,  Gusta,"  said  Archie,  "see  Air.  Marriott;  tell 
him  to  come  down  here ;  I  want  him  to  take  my  case. 
I'll  work  and  pay  him  when  I  get  out.  Say,  Gusta,"  he 
went  on,  "tell  him  to  conre  down  this  afternoon.  My 
God,  I've  got  to  get  out  of  here !  Will  you  ?  You  know 
where  his  office  is  ?" 

"I'll  find  it,"  said  Gusta. 

"It's  in  the  Wayne  Building." 

Gusta  tried  to  look  at  Archie ;  she  tried  to  keep  her 
eyes  on  his  face,  on  his  tumbled  yellow  hair,  on  his 
broad  shoulders,  broader  still  because  his  coat  and 
waistcoat  were  ofiF,  and  his  white  throat  was  revealed 
by  his  open  shirt.  But  she  found  it  hard,  because  her 
eyes  were  constantly  challenged  by  the  sights  beyond — 
the  cell  doors,  the  men  sleeping  off  their  liquor,  the 
restless  figures  that  haunted  the  shadows,  the  white 


THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE        99 

laces  peering  out  of  the  gloom.  The  smell  that  came 
from  within  was  beginning  to  sicken  her. 

"Oh,  Archie,"  she  said,  "it  must  be  awful  in  there!" 

Archie  became  suddenly  enraged 

"Awful?"  he  said.  "It's  heU!  This  place  ain't  fit  for 
a  dog  to  stay  in.  Why,  Gusta,  it's  alive — it's  crawlin' ! 
That's  what  it  is!  I  didn't  sleep  a  wink  last  night! 
Not  a  wink !  Say,  Gusta,"  he  grasped  the  bars,  pressed 
his  face  against  them,  "see  Mr.  Marriott  and  tell  him 
to  get  me  out  of  here.  Will  you?  See  him,  will  you?" 

"I  will,  Archie,"  she  said.  "I'll  go  right  away." 

She  was  eager  now  to  leave,  for  she  had  already 
turned  sick  with  loathing. 

"And  say,  Gusta,"  Archie  said,  "get  me  some  cigar- 
ettes and  send  'em  down  by  Marriott." 

"All  right,"  she  said.  She  was  backing  away. 

"Good-by,"  he  called.  The  turnkey  was  kxJdng  the 
door  on  him. 

Outside,  Gusta  leaned  a  moment  against  the  wall  of 
the  building,  breathing  in  the  outdoor  air;  presently 
she  went  on,  but  it  was  long  before  she  could  cleanse 
her  mouth  of  the  taste  or  her  nostrils  of  the  odor  of  the 
foul  air  of  that  prison  in  which  her  brother  was  locked. 


xn 


Gusta  hurried  out  of  the  alley  as  fast  as  she  could 
go;  she  wished  to  get  away  from  the  police  station, 
and  to  forget  the  faces  of  those  men  in  prison.  It  was 
now  nine  o'clock  and  the  activity  of  the  Market  was 
waning;  the  few  gardener's  wagons  that  lingered  with 
the  remnants  of  their  loads  were  but  a  suggestion  of  the 
hundreds  of  wagons  that  had  packed  the  square  before 
the  dawn.  Under  the  shed,  a  block  long,  a  constable 
was  offering  at  public  vendue  the  household  goods  of 
some  widow  who  ha,ti  been  evicted ;  the  torn  and  rusty 
mattresses,  broken  chairs  and  an  old  bed  were  going 
for  scarcely  enough  to  pay  the  costs;  a  little,  blue- 
bearded  man,  who  had  forced  the  sale,  stood  by  sharply 
watching,  ready  to  bid  the  things  in  himself  if  the 
dealers  in  second-hand  furniture  should  not  offer 
enough.  Gusta  hurried  on,  past  butcher-shops,  past 
small  saloons,  and  she  hurried  faster  because  every  one 
— the  policemen,  the  second-hand  dealers,  the  drivers 
of  the  market-wagons,  the  butchers  in  their  blood- 
stained smock  frocks — turned  to  look  at  her.  It  was 
three  blocks  to  the  Wayne  Building,  rearing  its  fifteen 
stories  aloft  from  the  roaring  tide  of  business  at  its 
feet,  and  Gusta  was  glad  to  lose  herself  in  the  crowds 
that  swarmed  along  the  street. 

The  waiting-room  of  Marriott's  office  was  filled ;  the 
door  which  was  lettered  with  his  name  was  closed,  and 

100 


THE   TURN    OF   THE    BALANCE       loi 

Gusta  had  to  wait.  She  joined  the  group  that  sat  silent 
in  the  chairs  along  the  walls,  and  watched  theVg^'rl  wM\i^ 
the  yellow  hair  at  the  typewriter.  The  girl's  white  fin- 
gers twinkled  over  the  keys ;  the  little  bell  tinkled  and 
the  girl  snatched  back  the  carriage  of  the  machine  with 
a  swift  grating  sound ;  she  wrote  furiously,  and  Gusta 
was  fascinated.  She  wished  she  might  be  a  typewriter ; 
it  must  be  so  much  easier  to  sit  here  in  this  pleasant, 
sunlit  office,  high  above  the  cares  and  turmoil  of  the 
world,  and  write  on  that  beautiful  machine;  so  much 
easier  than  to  toil  in  a  poor,  unhappy  home  with  a 
mother  ill,  a  father  maimed  and  racked  by  pains  so 
that  he  was  always  morose  and  cross,  a  brother  in  jail, 
and  always  work — the  thankless  task  of  washing  at  a 
tub,  of  getting  meals  when  there  was  little  food  to  get 
them  with.  Gusta  thought  she  might  master  the  ma- 
chine, but  no — her  heart  sank — she  could  not  spell  nor 
understand  all  the  long  words  the  lawyers  used,  so  that 
was  hopeless. 

After  a  while  the  door  marked  "Mr.  Marriott" 
opened,  and  a  man  stepped  out,  a  well-dressed  man, 
with  an  air  of  prosperousness ;  he  glanced  at  the  yel- 
low-haired typewriter  as  he  passed  out  of  the  office. 
Marriott  was  standing  in  his  door,  looking  at  the  line 
of  waiting  clients ;  his  face  was  worn  and  tired.  He 
seemed  to  hesitate  an  instant,  then  he  nodded  to  one 
of  the  waiting  women,  and  she  rose  and  entered  the 
private  office.  Just  as  Marriott  was  closing  the  door, 
he  saw  Gusta  and  smiled,  and  Gusta  was  cheered;  it 
was  the  first  friendly  smile  she  had  seen  that  day. 

She  had  to  wait  two  hours.  The  men  did  not  detain 
Marriott  long,  but  the  women  remained  in  his  private 
office  an  interminable  time,  and  whenever  he  opened 


I02   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

his  door  to  dismlbs  one  of  them,  he  took  out  his  watch 
afadJookalat'it.'  At  last,  however,  when  all  had  gone, 
he  said : 

"Well,  Gusta,  what  can  I  do  for  you  ?"  He  dropped 
into  his  chair,  swung  round  to  face  her,  rested  one 
elbow  on  the  top  of  the  desk  and  leaned  his  head  in  his 
hand. 

'T  came  to  see  about  Archie." 

Marriott  felt  the  deadly  ennui  that  came  over  him 
at  the  thought  of  these  petty  criminal  cases.  The  crimes 
were  so  small,  so  stupid,  and  so  squalid,  they  had  noth- 
ing to  excuse  them,  not  even  the  picturesque  quality  of 
adventure  that  by  some  sophistry  might  extenuate 
crimes  of  a  more  enterprising  and  dangerous  class. 
They  were  so  hopeless,  too,  and  Marriott  could  hardly 
keep  a  straight  face  while  he  defended  the  perpetrators, 
and  yet  he  allowed  himself  to  be  drawn  into  them ;  he 
found  himself  constantly  pleading  for  some  poor  devil 
who  had  neither  money  to  pay  him  nor  the  decency  to 
thank  him.  Sometimes  he  wondered  why  he  did  it,  and 
whenever  he  wondered  he  decided  that  he  would  never 
take  another  such  case.  Then  the  telephone  would  ring, 
and  before  he  knew  it  he  would  be  in  police  court  mak- 
ing another  poor  devil's  cause  his  own,  while  more 
important  litigation  must  wait — for  the  petty  criminals 
were  always  in  urgent  need;  the  law  would  not  stay 
for  them  nor  abide  their  convenience ;  with  them  it  was 
imperative,  implacable,  insistent,  as  if  to  dress  the  bal- 
ance for  its  delay  and  complaisance  with  its  larger  crim- 
inals. Marriott  often  thought  it  over,  and  he  had 
thought  enough  to  recognize  in  these  poor  law-breakers 
a  certain  essential  innocence;  they  were  so  sublimely 
foolish,  so  illogical,  they  made  such  lavish  sacrifice 


THE   TURN    OF   THE   BALANCE       103 

of  all  that  was  best  in  their  natures ;  they  lived  so  hard- 
ly, so  desperately ;  they  paid  such  tremendous  prices 
and  got  so  little ;  they  were  so  unobservant,  they  learned 
nothing  by  experience.  And  yet  with  one  another  they 
were  so  kind,  so  considerate,  so  loyal,  that  it  seemed 
hard  to  realize  that  they  could  be  so  unkind  and  so  dis- 
loyal to  the  rest  of  mankind.  In  his  instinctive  love  of 
human  nature,  their  very  hopelessness  and  helplessness 
appealed  to  him. 

*'Mr.  Marriott,  do  you  think  he  is  guilty  ?'*  Gusta  was 
asking. 

''Guilty?"  said  Marriott,  automatically  repeating  the 
word.   **Guilty?  What  difference  does  that  make?" 

''Oh,  Mr.  Marriott!"  the  girl  exclaimed,  her  blue 
eyes  widening.  "Surely,  it  makes  all  the  difference  in 
the  world!" 

"To  you?" 

"Why— yes— shouldn't  it  ?" 

"No,  it  shouldn't,  Gusta,  and  what's  more,  it  doesn't. 
And  it  doesn't  to  me,  either.  You  don't  want  him  sent 
to  prison  even  if  he  is  guilty,  do  you  ?" 

"N — no,"  Gusta  hesitated  as  she  assented  to  the 
heresy. 

"No,  of  course  you  don't.  Because,  Gusta,  we  know   * 
him — we  know  he's  all  right,  don't  we,  no  matter  what 
he  has  done?  Just  as  we  know  that  we  ourselves  are 
all  right  when  we  do  bad  things — isn't  that  it?" 
?     The  girl  was  sitting  with  her  yellow  head  bent ;  she 
was  trying  to  think. 

"But  father  would  say — " 

"Oh,  yes,"  Marriott  laughed,  "father  would  say  and  i 
grandfather  would  say,  too — that's  just  the  trouble.  ' 
Father  got  his  notions  from  thq  Ojd  World,  but  we — 


104   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

i  Gusta,  we  know  more  than  father  or  grandfather  in 
*^  this  country." 

Marriott  enjoyed  the  discomfiture  that  Gusta  plainly 
showed  in  her  inability  to  understand  in  the  least  what 
he  was  saying.  He  felt  a  little  mean  about  it,  for  he 
recognized  that  he  was  speaking  for  his  own  benefit 
rather  than  for  hers ;  he  had  wished  Elizabeth  might 
be  there  to  hear  him. 

''I  don't  know  much  about  it,  Mr.  Marriott,"  Gusta 
said  presently,  "but  when  will  you  go  to  see  him  ?" 

"Oh,  I'll  try  to  get  down  this  afternoon." 

"All  right.  He  told  me  to  ask  you  please  to  bring  him 
some  cigarettes.  Of  course,"  she  was  going  on  in  an 
apologetic  tone,  but  Marriott  cut  her  short : 

"Oh,  he  wants  cigarettes  ?  Well,  I'll  take  them  to 
him:" 

Then  they  talked  the  futilities  which  were  all  such  a 
case  could  inspire,  and  Marriott,  looking  at  his  watch, 
made  Gusta  feel  that  she  should  go.  But  the  world 
wore  a  new  aspect  for  her  when  she  left  Marriott's  of- 
fice. The  spring  sun  was  warm  now,  and  she  felt  that 
she  had  the  right  to  glory  in  it.  The  crowds  in  the 
streets  seemed  human  and  near,  not  far  away  and 
strange  as  they  had  been  before ;  she  felt  that  she  had 
somehow  been  restored  to  her  own  rights  in  life.  She 
had  not  understood  Marriott's  philosophy  in  the  least, 
but  she  went  away  with  the  memory  of  his  face  and  the 
memory  of  his  smile;  she  could  not  realize  her 
thoughts ;  it  was  a  feeling  more  than  anything  else,  but 
she  knew  that  here  was  one  man,  at  least,  who  believed 
in  her  brother,  and  it  seemed  that  he  was  determined 
ta  believe  in  him  no  matter  what  the  brother  did ;  and 


Elizabeth  saw  that  her  tears  were  falling        Page  lO^ 


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u/v/ves- 


Of 


si£ORN*ft, 


THE   TURN   OF   THE   BALANCE       105 

he  believed  in  her,  too,  and  this  was  everything — this 
made  the  whole  world  glad,  just  as  the  sun  made  the 
whole  world  glad  that  morning. 

But  Gusta's  heart  sank  at  the  thought  of  going 
home;  there  was  nothing  there  now  but  discord  and 
toil.  The  excitement,  the  change  of  the  morning,  the 
little  interview  with  Marriott,  had  served  to  divert 
her,  and  now  the  thought  of  returning  to  that  dull  and 
wearisome  routine  was  more  than  ever  distasteful.  It 
was  nearly  noon,  and  she  would  be  expected,  but  she, 
did  not  like  to  lose  these  impressions,  and  she  did  not; 
like  to  leave  this  warm  sunshine,  these  busy,  moving 
streets,  this  contact  with  active  Hfe,  and  so  she  wan- 
dered on  out  Claybourne  Avenue.  There  was  slowly 
taking  form  within  her  a  notion  of  eking  out  her  pleas- 
ure by  going  to  see  Elizabeth  Ward,  but  she  did  not  let 
the  thought  wholly  take  form ;  rather  she  let  it  lie  dor- 
mant under  her  other  thoughts.  She  walked  along  in 
the  sunlight  and  looked  at  the  automobiles  that  went 
trumpeting  by,  at  the  carriages  rolling  home  with  their,- 
aristocratic  mistresses  lolling  on  their  cushions.  Gusta 
found  a  pleasure  in  recognizing  many  of  these  women ; 
she  had  opened  the  Wards'  big  front  door  to  them, 
she  had  served  them  with  tea,  or  at  dinner;  she  had 
heard  their  subdued  laughter;  she  had  covertly  in- 
spected their  toilets ;  some  of  them  had  glanced  for  an 
instant  into  her  eyes  and  thanked  her  for  some  little 
service.  And  then  she  could  recall  things  she  had  heard 
them  say,  bits  of  gossip,  or  scandal,  some  of  which  gave 
her  pleasure,  others  feelings  of  hatred  and  disgust.  A 
rosy  young  matron  drove  by  in  a  phaeton,  with  her 
pretty  children  piled  about  her  feet,  and  the  sight 


io6   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

pleased  Gusta.  She  smiled  and  hurried  on  with  quick- 
ened step. 

At  last  she  saw  the  familiar  house,  and  then  to  her 
joy  she  saw  Elizabeth  on  the  veranda,  leaning  against 
one  of  the  pillars,  evidently  taking  the  air,  enjoying  the 
sun  and  the  spring.  Elizabeth  saw  Gusta,  too,  and  her 
eyes  brightened. 

"Why,  Gusta!"  she  said.   "Is  that  you?" 

Gusta  stood  on  the  steps  and  looked  up  at  Elizabeth. 
Her  face  was  rosy  with  embarrassment  and  pleasure. 
Elizabeth  perched  on  the  rail  of  the  veranda  and  ex- 
amined the  vine  of  Virginia  roses  that  had  not  yet  be- 
gun to  put  forth.  ' 

"And  how  are  you  getting  along?"  she  said.  "How 
are  they  all  at  home  ?" 

Gusta  told  her  of  her  father  and  of  her  mother  and  of 
the  children.  i 

Elizabeth  tried  to  talk  to  her ;  she  was  fond  of  her, 
but  there  seemed  to  be  nothing  to  talk  about.  She  knew, 
too,  how  Gusta  adored  her,  and  she  felt  that  she  must 
always  retain  this  adoration,  and  constantly  prove  her 
kindness  to  Gusta.  But  the  conversation  was  nothing 
but  a  series  of  questions  she  extorted  from  herself  by  a 
continued  effort  that  quickly  wearied  her,  especially 
as  Gusta's  replies  were  delivered  so  promptly  and  so 
laconically  that  she  could  not  think  of  other  questions 
fast  enough.  At  last  she  said : 

"And  how's  Archie?" 

And  then  instantly  she  remembered  that  Archie  was 
in  prison.  Her  heart  smote  her  for  her  thoughtless- 
jiess.  Gusta's  head  was  hanging. 

"IVe  just  been  to  see  him,"  she  said. 

"I  wished  to  hear  of  him,  Gusta/^  Elizabeth  said. 


THE   TURN   OF  THE   BALANCE       107 

trying  by  her  tone  to  destroy  the  quality  of  her  first 
question.  *T  spoke  to  Mr.  Marriott  about  him — I'm 
sure  he'll  get  him  off." 

Gusta  made  no  reply,  and  Elizabeth  saw  that  her 
tears  were  fallmg. 

"Come,  Gusta/'  she  said  sympathetically,  "you 
mustn't  feel  bad." 

The  girl  suddenly  looked  at  her,  her  eyes  full  of 
tears. 

"Oh,  Miss  Elizabeth,"  she  said,  "if  you  could  only 
know !  To  see  him  down  there — in  that  place !  Such  a 
thing  never  happened  to  us  before !" 

"But  I'm  sure  it'll  all  come  out  right  in  the  end — 
I'm  sure  of  that.  There  must  have  been  some  mistake. 
Tell  me  all  about  it." 

And  then  Gusta  told  her  the  whole  story. 

"You  don't  know  how  it  feels,  Miss  Elizabeth,"  she 
said  when  she  had  done,  "to  have  your  own  brother — 
such  a  thing  couldn't  happen  to  you — here."  Gusta 
glanced  about  her,  taking  in  at  a  glance,  as  it  were,  the 
large  house,  and  all  its  luxury  and  refinement  and 
riches,  as  if  these  things  were  insurmountable  barriers 
to  such  misfortune  and  disgrace. 

'  Elizabeth  saw  the  glance,  and  some  way,  suddenly, 
the  light  and  warmth  went  out  of  the  spring  day  for 
her.  The  two  girls  looked  at  each  other  a  moment, 
then  they  looked  away,  and  there  was  silence.  Eliza- 
beth's brows  were  contracted ;  in  her  eyes  there  was  a 
look  of  pain. 

1  When  Gusta  had  gone  Elizabeth  went  indoors,  but 
her  heart  was  heavy.  She  tried  to  throw  off  the  feeling, 
but  could  not.  She  told  herself  that  it  was  her  imagi- 
nation, always  half  morbid,  but  this  did  not  satisfy  her. 


io8   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

She  was  silent  at  the  luncheon-table  until  her  mother 
said: 

"Elizabeth,  what  in  the  world  ails  you  ?" 

"Oh,  nothing." 

"I  know  something  does,"  insisted  Mrs.  Ward. 

Elizabeth,  with  her  head  inclined,  was  outlining  with 
the  prong  of  a  fork  the  pattern  on  the  salad  bowl. 

"Gusta  has  been  here,  telling  me  her  troubles." 

"Oh,  that's  it,  is  it?"  said  Mrs.  Ward. 

"You  know  her  brother  has  been  arrested." 

"What  for?" 

"Stealing." 

"Indeed!  Well!  I  do  wish  she'd  keep  away!  I'm 
sure  I  don't  know  what  we've  done  that  we  should  have 
such  things  brought  into  our  house !" 

"But  it's  too  bad,"  said  Elizabeth.  "The  young 
man — " 

"Yes,  the  young  man !  If  he'd  go  to  work  and  earn 
an  honest  living,  he  wouldn't  be  arrested  for  stealing !" 

"I  was  just  thinking — "  Elizabeth  finished  the  pat- 
tern on  the  salad  bowl  and  inclined  her  head  on  the 
other  side,  as  if  she  had  really  designed  the  pattern  and 
were  studying  the  effect  of  her  finished  work, — "that 
if  Pick— " 

"Why,  Elizabeth !"  Mrs.  Ward  cried.  "How  can  you 
$ay  such  a  thing?" 

Elizabeth  smiled,  and  the  smile  irritated  her  mother. 

"I'm  sure  it's  entirely  different!"  Mrs.  Ward  went 
on.    "Dick  does  not  belong  to  that  class  at  all !" 


XIII 

The  truth  was  that  EHzabeth  had  been'  worried  f of 
days  about  Dick.  A  few  evenings  before,  Ward,  who 
took  counsel  of  his  daughter  rather  than  of  his  wife  in 
such  affairs,  had  told  her  of  his  concern  aboilt  his  son. 

"I  don't  know  what  to  do  with  the  boy,"  he  had  said. 
"He  seems  to  have  no  interest  in  anything ;  he  tired  of 
school,  and  he  tired  of  college;  and  now  he  is  of  ag;e 
and — doing  nothing." 

She  remembered  how  he  had  sat  there,  puffing  at  his 
cigar  as  if  that  could  assist  him  to  some  conclusion. 

"I  tried  him  in  the  office  for  a  while,  you  know,  but 
he  did  not  seem  to  take  it  seriously — oi  course,  it 
wasn't  really  serious ;  the  work  went  on  as  well  without 
him  as  with  him.   I  guess  he,  knew  that." 

Elizabeth  sat  and  thought,  but  the  problem  which  her 
father  had  put  to  her  immediately  overpowered  her; 
there  seemed  to  be  no  solution  at  all — she  coujld  not 
even  arrange  its  terms  in  her  mind,  and  she  was  silent, 
yet  her  silence  was  charged  with  sympathy. 

"I've  talked  to  him,  but  that  does  no  good.  I've 
pleaded  with  him,  but  that  does  no  good.  I  tried  giving 
him  unlimited  money,  then  I  put  him  on  an  allowance, 
then  I  cut  him  off  altogether — it  was  just  the  saifne." 

Ward  smoked  a  moment  in  silence. 

"I've  thought  of  every  known  profession.  He  says 
he  doesn't  want  to  be  a  lawyer  or  a  doctor ;  he  has  no 

109 


no      THE   TURN   OF  THiE   JBALaNCE 

taste  for  mechanics,  and  he  seems  to  have  no  interest 
in  business.  I've  thought  of  sending  him  abroad,  or  out 
West,  but  he  doesn't  want  to  do  that." 

And  again  the  silence  and  the  smoking  and  the  pain. 

**He's  out  to-night — where,  I  don't  know.  I  don't 
want  to  know — I'm  afraid  to  know !" 

There  was  something  wild,  appealing  and  pathetic  in 
this  cry  wrung  from  a  father's  heart.  Elizabeth  had 
looked  up  quickly,  her  own  heart  aching  with  pity. 
She  recalled  how  he  had  said : 

"Your  mother — she  doesn't  understand;  I  don't 
know  that  I  want  her  to;  she  idoHzes  the  boy;  she 
thinks  he  can't  do  wrong." 

And  then  Elizabeth  had  slipped  her  arm  about  his 
neck,  and,  leaning  over,  had  placed  her  cheek  against 
his ;  her  tears  had  come,  and  she  had  felt  that  his  tears 
had  come ;  he  had  patted  her  hand.  They  had  sat  thus 
for  a  long  while. 

"Poor  boy !"  Ward  had  said  again.  "He's  only  mak- 
ing trouble  for  himself.  I'd  like  to  help  him,  but  some- 
how, Bess,  I  can't  get  next  to  him ;  when  I  try  to  talk 
to  him,  when  I  try  to  be  confidential  and  all  that — 
something  comes  between  us,  and  I  can't  say  it  right. 
I  can't  talk  to  him  as  I  could  to  any  other  man.  I  don't 
know  why  it  is ;  I  sometimes  think  that  it's  all  my  fault, 
that  I  haven't  reared  him  right,  that  I  haven't  done 
my  duty  by  him,  and  yet,  God  knows,  I've  tried !" 

"Oh,  papa,"  she  had  replied  protestingly,  "you 
mustn't  blame  yourself — you've  done  everything." 

"He's  really  a  good  boy,"  Ward  had  gone  on  irrele- 
vantly, ignoring  himself  in  his  large,  unselfish  thought 
for  his  son.  "He's  kind  and  generous,  and  he  means 
well  enough — and — and — I  think  he  likes  me." 


THE  TURN   OF  THE  BALANCE      in 

This  had  touched  her  to  the  quick,  and  she  had  wept 
softly,  stroking  her  father's  cheek. 

"Can't  you — couldn't  you — "  he  began.  **Do  you 
think  you  could  talk  to  him,  Bess?" 

"I'll  try/'  she  said,  and  just  then  her  brother  had 
come  into  the  room,  rosy  and  happy  and  unsuspecting, 
and  their  confidences  were  at  an  end. 

Ward  did  not  realize,  of  course,  that  in  asking  Eliza- 
beth to  speak  to  Dick  he  was  laying  a  heavy  burden  on 
her.  She  had  promised  her  father  in  a  kind  of  pity  for 
him,  a  pity  w^hich  sprang  from  her  great  love ;  but  as 
she  thought  it  over,  wondering  what  she  was  to  say, 
the  ordeal  grew  greater  and  greater — greater  than  any 
she  had  ever  had  to  encounter.  For  several  days  she 
was  spared  the  necessity  of  redeeming  her  promise,  for 
Dick  was  so  little  at  home,  and  fortunately,  as  Elizabeth 
felt,  when  he  was  there  the  circumstances  were  not  pro- 
pitious. Then  she  kept  putting  it  off,  and  putting  it  off ; 
and  the  days  went  by.  Her  father  had  not  recurred  to 
the  subject;  having  once  opened  his  heart,  he  seemed 
suddenly  to  have  closed  it,  even  against  her.  His  atti- 
tude was  such  that  she  felt  she  could  not  talk  the  matter 
over  with  him ;  if  she  could  she  might  have  asked  him 
to  give  her  back  her  promise.  She  could  not  talk  it  over 
with  her  mother,  and  she  longed  to  talk  it  over  with 
some  one.  One  evening  she  had  an  impulse  to  tell  Mar- 
riott about  it.  She  knew  that  he  could  sympathize  with 
her,  and,  what  was  more,  she  knew  that  he  could  sym- 
pathize with  Dick,  whereas  she  could  not  sympathize 
with  Dick  at  all.  Though  she  laughed,  and  sang,  and 
read,  and  talked,  and  drove,  and  Uved  her  customary 
life,  the  subject  was  always  in  her  thoughts.  Finally 
she  discovered  that  she  was  adopting  little  subterfuges 


112      THE   TURIST-'OF   THE   BALANCE 

in  order  to  evade  it,  and  she  became  disgusted  with  her- 
self. She  had  morbid  fears  that  her  character  would 
give  way  under  the  strain.  At  night  she  lay  awake 
waiting,  as  she  knew  her  father  must  be  waiting,  for  the 
ratchet  of  Dick's  key  in  the  night-latch. 

In  the  many  different  ways  she  imagined  herself  ap- 
proaching the  siibject  with  Dick,  in  the  many  different 
conversations  she  planned,  she  always  found  herself 
facing  an  impenetrable  barrier — she  did  not  know  with 
what  she  was  to  reproach  him,  with  what  wrong  she 
was  to  charge  him.  She  conceived  of  the  whole  affair, 
as  the  Anglo-Saxon  mind  feels  it  must  always  deal 
with  wrong,  in  the  forensic  form — indictment,  trial, 
judgment,  execution.  But  after  all,  what  had  Dick 
done  ?  As  she  saw  him  coming  and  going  through  the 
house,  at  the  table,  or  elsewhere,  he  was  still  the  same 
Dick — and  this  perplexed  her;  for,  looking  at  him 
through  the  medium  of  her  talk  with  her  father,  Dick 
seemed  to  be  something  else  than  her  brother ;  he 
seemed  to  have  changed  into  something  bad.  Thus  his 
misdeeds  magnified  themselves  to  her  mind,  and  she 
thought  of  them  instead  of  him,  of  the  sin  instead  of  the 
sinner. 

That  night  Dick  did  not  come  at  all.  In  the  morning 
when  her  father  appeared,  Elizabeth  saw  that  he  was 
haggard  and  old.  As  he  walked  heavily  toward  his 
waiting  carriage,  her  love  and  pity  for  him  received  a 
sudden  impetus. 

Dick  did  not  return  until  the  next  evening,  and  the 
following  morning  he  came  down  just  as  his  father 
was  leaving  the  house.  If  Ward  heard  his  son's  step  on 
the  stairs,  he  did  not  turn,  but  went  on  out,  got  into  his 
brougham,  and  sank  back  wearily  on  its  cushions.    It 


THE   TURN   of:   THE   BALANCE       113 

happened  that  Elizabeth  came  into  the  hall  at  that 
moment;  she  saw  her  father,  and  she  saw  her  brother 
coming  down  the  stairs,  dressed  faultlessly  in  new 
clothes  and  smoking  a  cigarette.  As  Elizabeth  saw 
him,  so  easy  and  unconcerned,  her  anger  suddenly 
blazed  out,  her  eyes  flashed,  and  she  took  one  quick 
step  toward  him.  His  fresh,  ruddy  face  wore  a  smile, 
but  as  she  confronted  him  and  held  out  one  arm  in  dra- 
matic rigidity  and  pointed  toward  her  father,  Dick 
•halted  and  his  smile  faded. 

"Look  at  him !"  Elizabeth  said,  pointing  to  her  father. 
"Look  at  him !  Do  you  know  what  you're  doing  ?" 

"Why,  Bess" — Dick  began,  surprised. 

"You're  breaking  his  heart,  that's  what  you're  do- 
ing!" 

She  stood  there,  her  eyes  menacing,  her  face  flushed, 
her  arm  extended.  The  carriage  was  rolling  down  the 
drive  and  her  father  had  gone,  but  Elizabeth  still  had 
the  vision  of  his  bent  frame  as  he  got  into  his  carriage. 

"Did  you  see  him  ?"  she  went  on.  "Did  you  see  how 
He's  aging,  how  much  whiter  his  hair  has  grown  in  the 
last  few  weeks,  how  his  figure  has  bent  ?  You're  killing 
him,  that's  what  you're  doing,  killing  him  inch  by  inch. 
Why  can't  you  do  it  quick,  all  at  once,  and  be  done  with 
it  ?  That  would  be  kinder,  more  merciful !" 

Her  lip  curled  in  sarcasm.  Dick  stood  by  the  newel- 
post,  his  face  white,  his  lips  open  as  if  to  speak. 

"You  spend  your  days  in  idleness  and  your  nights 
in  dissipation.  You  won't  work.  You  won't  do  any- 
thing. You  are  disgracing  your  family  and  your  name. 
Can't  you  see  it,  or  won't  you  ?" 

"Why,  Bess,"  Dick  began,  "what's  the—" 

She  looked  at  him  a  moment ;  he  was  like  her  mother. 


114   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

so  good-natured,  so  slow  to  anger.  His  attitude,  his  ex- 
pression, infuriated  her;  words  seemed  to  have  no 
effect,  and  in  her  fury  she  felt  that  she  must  make 
him  see,  that  she  must  force  him  to  realize  what  he  was 
doing — force  him  to  acknowledge  his  fault — force  him 
to  be  good. 

*'Of  course,  you'd  just  stand  there!"  sHe  said.  "Why 
don't  you  say  something?  You  know  what  you're  doing 
— you  know  it  better  than  I.  I  should  think  you'd  be 
ashamed  to  look  a  sister  in  the  face !" 

Dick  had  seen  Elizabeth  angry  before,  but  never 
quite  like  this.  Slowly  within  him  his  own  anger  was 
mounting.  What  right,  h^  thought,  had  she  to  take  him 
thus  to  task — ^him,  a  man?  He  drew  himself  up,  his 
face  suddenly  lost  its  pallor  and  a  flush  of  scarlet  mot- 
tled it.  Strangely,  in  that  same  instant,  Elizabeth's  face 
became  very  white.  • 

"Look  here,"  he  said,  speaking  in  a  heavy  voice,  "I 
don't  want  any  more  of  this  from  you !" 

For  an  instant  there  was  something  menacing  in  his 
manner,  and  then  he  walked  away  and  left  her. 

Elizabeth  stood  a  moment,  trembling  violently.  He 
had  gone  into  the  dining-room ;  he  was  talking  with  his 
mother  in  low  tones.  Elizabeth  went  up  the  stairs  to 
her  room  and  closed  the  door,  and  then  a  great  wave  of 
moral  sickness  swept  over  her.  She  sat  down,  trying  to 
compose  herself,  trying  to  still  her  nerves.  The  whole 
swift  scene  with  her  brother  flashed  before  her  in  all 
its  squalor.  Had  she  acted  well  or  rightly?  Was  her 
anger  what  is  called  a  righteous  indignation  ?  She  was 
sure  that  she  had  acted  for  the  best,  for  her  father  in 
the  first  place,  and  for  Dick  more  than  all,  but  it  was 
suddenly  revealed  to  her  that  she  had  failed ;  she  had 


THE   TURN   OF   THE   BALANCE       115 

not  touched  his  heart  at  all ;  she  had  expended  all  her 
force,  and  it  was  utterly  lost;  she  had  failed — failed. 
This  word  repeated  itself  in  her  brain.  She  tried  to 
think,  but  her  brain  was  in  turmoil ;  she  could  think  but 
one  thing — she  had  failed.  She  bent  her  head  and  wept. 


XIV 

Archie  Koemer  and  Spud  Healy  and  tHe  others  oi 
the  gang  lay  in  prison  for  a  week ;  each  morning  they 
were  taken  with  other  prisoners  to  the  bull-pen,  and 
there  they  would  stand — for  an  hour,  two  hours,  three 
hours — and  look  through  the  heavy  wire  screen  at 
officers,  lawyers,  court  attaches,  witnesses  and  prosecu- 
tors who  passed  and  repassed,  peering  at  them  as  at 
caged  animals,  some  curiously,  some  in  hatred  and  re- 
venge, some  with  fear,  now  and  then  one  with  pity. 
The  session  would  end,  they  would  be  taken  down- 
stairs again — the  police  were  not  yet  ready.  But  finally, 
one  Saturday  morning,  they  were  taken  into  the  court- 
room and  arraigned.  Bostwick,  the  judge,  heard  a  part 
of  the  evidence ;  it  was  nearly  noon,  and  court  never 
sat  on  Saturday  afternoons.  Bostwick  and  the  prosecu- 
tor both  were  very  anxious  to  get  away  for  their  half- 
holiday.  The  session  had  been  long  and  trying,  the 
morning  was  sultry,  a  summer  day  had  fallen  unex- 
pectedly in  the  midst  of  the  spring.  Bostwick  was 
uncomfortable  in  his  heavy  clothes.  He  hurried  the 
hearing  and  sent  them  all  to  the  workhouse  for  thirty 
days,  and  fined  them  the  costs.  Marriott  had  realized 
the  hopelessness  of  the  case  from  the  first ;  even  he  was 
glad  the  hearing  was  over,  glad  to  have  Archie  off  his 
mind. 

The  little  trial  was  but  a  trivial  incident  iti  th^  JHe  of 
ii6 


J^ 


4 

THE   TURN    OF   THE   BALANCE       117 

the  city ;  Bostwick  and  the  prosecutor,  to  whom  it  was 
but  a  part  of  the  day's  work,  forgot  it  in  the  zest  of  or- 
dering a  luncheon;  the  poHce  forgot  it,  excepting 
Kouka,  who  boasted  to  the  reporters  and  felt  important 
for  a  day.  Frisby,  a  little  lawyer  with  a  catarrhal  voice, 
thought  of  it  long  enough  to  be  thankful  that  he  had 
demanded  his  fee  in  advance  from  the  mother  of  the 
boy  he  had  defended — it  took  her  last  cent  and  made 
her  go  hungry  over  Sunday.  Back  on  the  Flats,  in  the 
shadow  of  the  beautiful  spire  of  St.  Francis,  there  were 
cries,  Gaelic  lamentations,  keening,  counting  of  beads 
and  prayers  to  the  Virgin.  The  reporters  made  para- 
graphs for  their  newspapers,  writing  in  the  flippant 
spirit  with  which  they  had  been  taught  to  treat  the  daily 
tragedies  of  the  police  court.  Some  people  scanned  the 
paragraphs,  and  life  passed  by  on  the  other  side; 
the  crowds  of  the  city  surged  and  swayed,  and 
Sunday  dawned  with  the  church-bells  ringing  peace- 
fully. 

The  Koerner  family  had  the  news  that  evening  from 
Jerry  Crowley,  the  policeman  who  had  recently  been 
assigned  to  that  beat,  his  predecessor.  Miller,  having 
been  suspended  for  drunkenness.  Crowley  had  had  a 
hard  time  of  it  ever  since  he  came  on  the  beat.  The 
vicinity  was  German  and  he  was  Irish,  and  race  hatred 
pursued  him  daily  with  sneers,  and  jibes,  and  insults, 
now  and  then  with  stones  and  clods.  The  children  took 
their  cue  from  the  gang  at  Nussbaum's ;  the  gang  made 
his  life  miserable.  Yet  Crowley  was  a  kindly  Irishman, 
with  many  a  jest  and  joke,  and  a  pleasant  word  for 
every  one.  Almost  anybody  he  arrested  could  get 
Crowley  to  let  him  go  by  begging  hard  enough.  On 
the  warm  evenings  Koerner  would  sit  on  the  stoop, 


ti8   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

and  Crowley,  coming  by,  would  stop  for  a  dish  of  gos- 
sip. 

"Oh,  come  now,  Mr.  Koerner,"  he  said  that  Saturday 
night,  after  he  had  crudely  told  the  old  German  of  his 
son's  fate,  "I  wouldn't  take  it  that  hard;  shure  an' 
maybe  it's  good  'twill  be  doin'  the  lad  an'  him  needin'  it 
the  way  he  does." 

Officer  Crowley  was  interrupted  in  his  comforting 
by  a  racket  at  the  corner — ^the  warm,  soft  nights  were 
bringing  the  gang  out,  and  he  went  away  to  wage  his 
hopeless  battle  with  it.  When  he  returned,  old  man 
Koerner  had  gone  indoors. 

Gusta  shared  all  her  father's  humiliation  and  all  her 
mother's  grief  at  Archie's  imprisonment.  She  felt  that 
she  should  visit  her  brother  in  prison,  but  it  was  a  whole 
week  before  she  could  get  away,  and  then  on  a  brilliant 
Sunday  afternoon  she  went  to  the  workhouse.  The 
hideous  prison  buildings  were  surrounded  by  a  high 
fence,  ugly  in  its  dull  red  paint;  the  office  and  the  ad- 
joining quarters  where  the  superintendent  lived  had  a 
grass  plot  in  which  some  truckling  trusty  had  made 
flower-beds  to  please  the  superintendent's  wife.  In  the 
office  an  old  clerk,  in  a  long  black  coat,  received  Gusta 
solemnly.  He  was  sitting,  from  the  habit  of  many 
years,  on  the  high  stool  at  the  desk  where  he  worked ; 
ordinarily  he  crouched  over  his  books  in  the  fear  that 
political  changes  would  take  his  job  from  him ;  now  a 
Sunday  paper,  which  the  superintendent  and  his  family 
had  read  and  discarded,  replaced  the  sad  records,  but 
he  bent  over  this  none  the  less  timidly.  After  a  long 
while  an  ill-natured  guard,  whose  face  had  grown  par- 
ticularly sinister  and  vicious  in  the  business,  ordered 
Gusta  to  follow  him,  and  led  her  back  into  the  building. 


TPIE   TURN   OF  THE   BALANCE      119 

Reluctantly  he  unlocked  doors  and  locked  them  behind 
her,  and  Gusta  grew  alarmed.  Once,  waiting  for  him  to 
unlock  what  proved  to  be  a  final  door,  he  waited  while 
a  line  of  women,  fourteen  or  fifteen  of  them,  in  uniform 
of  striped  gingham,  went  clattering  up  a  spiral  iron 
stairway ;  two  or  three  of  the  women  were  negresses. 
They  had  been  down  to  the  services  some  Christian 
people  had  been  holding  for  the  inmates,  preaching  to 
them  that  if  they  believed  on  Jesus  they  would  find 
release,  and  peace,  and  happiness.  These  people,  of 
course,  did  not  mean  release  from  the  workhouse,  and 
the  peace  and  happiness,  it  seemed,  could  not  come  un- 
til the  inmates  died.  So  long  as  they  lived,  their  only 
prospect  seemed  to  be  unpaid  work  by  day,  bread  and 
molasses  to  eat,  and  a  cell  to  sleep  in  at  night,  with 
iron  bars  locking  them  in  and  armed  men  to  watch 
them.  However,  the  inmates  enjoyed  the  services  be- 
cause they  were  allowed  to  sing. 

After  the  women  disappeared,  Gusta  stood  fearfully 
before  a  barred  door  and  looked  down  into  a  cell-house. 
The  walls  were  three  stories  high,  and  sheer  from  the 
floor  upward,  with  narrow  windows  at  the  top.  Inside 
this  shell  of  brick  the  cells  were  banked  tier  on  tier, 
with  dizzy  galleries  along  each  tier.  Though  Gusta 
could  see  no  one,  she  could  hear  a  multitude  of  low 
voices,  like  the  humming  of  a  bee-hive — the  prisoners, 
locked  two  in  each  little  cell,  were  permitted  to  talk 
during  this  hour.  The  place  was  clean,  but  had,  of 
course,  the  institutional  odor.  The  guard  called  another 
guard,  and  between  them  they  unlocked  several  locks 
and  threw  several  levers ;  finally  a  cell-door  opened — 
and  Gusta  saw  Archie  come  forth.  He  wore  a  soiled 
ill-fitting  suit  of  gray  flannel   with  wide  horizontal 


120   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

stripes,  and  his  hair  had  been  clipped  close  to  his  head. 
The  sight  so  confused  and  appalled  Gusta  that  she 
could  not  speak,  and  the  guard,  standing  suspiciously 
by  her  side  to  hear  all  that  was  said,  made  it  impossible 
for  her  to  talk.  The  feeling  was  worse  than  that  she 
had  had  at  the  police  station  when  an  iron  door  had 
thus  similarly  separated  her  from  her  brother. 

Archie  came  close  and  took  hold  of  the  bars  with  both 
his  hands  and  peered  at  her ;  he  asked  her  a  few  ques- 
tions about  things  at  home,  and  charged  her  with  a  few 
unimportant  messages  and  errands.  But  she  could  only 
stand  there  with  the  tears  streaming  down  her  face. 
Presently  the  guard  ordered  Archie  back  to  his  cell, 
and  he  went  away,  turning  back  wistfully  and  repeating 
his  messages  in  a  kind  of  desperate  wish  to  connect 
himself  with  the  world. 

When  Gusta  got  outside  again,  she  determined  that 
she  would  not  go  home,  for  there  the  long  shadow  of 
the  prison  lay.  She  did  not  know  where  to  go  or  what 
to  do,  but  while  she  was  trying  to  decide  she  heard 
from  afar  the  music  of  a  band — surely  there  would  be 
distraction.  So  she  walked  in  the  direction  of  the 
music.  About  the  workhouse,  as  about  all  prisons, 
were  the  ramshackles  of  squalid  poverty  and  worse; 
but  little  Flint  Street,  along  which  she  took  her  way, 
began  to  pick  up,  and  she  passed  cottages,  painted  and 
prim,  where  w^orkmen  lived,  and  the  people  she  saw, 
and  their  many  children  playing  in  the  street,  were 
well  dressed  and  happy.  It  seemed  strange  to  Gusta 
that  any  one  should  be  happy  then.  When  suddenly 
she  came  into  Eastend  Avenue,  she  knew  at  last  where 
she  was  and  whence  the  music  came ;  she  remembered 
that  Miami  Park  was  not  far  away.   The  avenue  was 


THE   TURN   OF   THE   BALANCE       121 

crowded  with  vehicles,  not  the  styUsh  kind  she  had 
been  accustomed  to  on  Claybourne  Avenue,  but  bug- 
gies from  livery-stables,  in  which  men  drove  to  the 
road-houses  up  the  river,  surreys  with  whole  families 
crowded  in  them,  now  and  then  some  grocer's  or  butch- 
er's delivery  wagon  furnished  with  seats  and  filled  with 
women  and  children.  The  long  yellow  trolley-cars 
that  went  sliding  by  with  incessant  clangor  of  gongs 
were  loaded;  the  only  signs  of  the  aristocracy  Gusta 
once  had  known  were  the  occasional  automobiles, 
bound,  like  the  Sunday  afternoon  buggy-riders,  up  the 
smooth  white  river  road. 

Eastend  Avenue  ran  through  the  park,  and  just  be- 
fore it  reached  that  playground  of  the  people  it  was 
lined  with  all  kinds  of  amusement  pavilions,  little 
vaudeville  shows,  merry-go-rounds,  tintype  studios, 
shooting  galleries,  pop-corn  and  lemonade  stands,  pub- 
lic dance  halls  where  men  and  girls  were  whirling  in 
the  waltz.  On  one  side  was  a  beer-garden.  All  these 
places  were  going  noisily,  with  men  shouting  out  the 
attractions  inside,  hand-organs  and  drums  making 
a  wild,  barbaric  din,  and  in  the  beer-garden  a  Ger- 
man band  braying  out  its  meretricious  tunes.  But 
at  the  beginning  of  the  park  a  dead-line  was  invisibly 
drawn — beyond  that  the  city  would  not  allow  the 
catch-penny  amusements  to  go.  On  one  side  of  the 
avenue  the  park  sloped  down  to  the  river,  on  the  other 
it  stretched  into  a  deep  grove.  The  glass  roof  of  a 
botanical  house  gleamed  in  the  sun,  and  beyond,  hid- 
den among  the  trees,  were  the  zoological  gardens, 
where  a  deer  park,  a  bear-pit,  a  monkey  house,  and  a 
yard  in  which  foxes  skulked  and  racoons  slept,  strove 
with  their  mild-mannered  exhibits  for  the  beginnings 


122   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE     , 

of  a  menagerie.  And  everywhere  were  people  strolling 
along  the  walks,  lounging  under  the  trees,  hundreds 
of  them,  thousands  of  them,  dressed  evidently  in  their 
best  clothes,  seeking  relief  from  the  constant  toil  that 
kept  their  lives  on  a  monotonous  level. 

Gusta  stood  a  while  and  gazed  on  the  river.  On  the 
farther  shore  its  green  banks  rose  high  and  rolled 
away  with  the  imagination  into  woods  and  fields  and 
farms.  Here  and  there  little  cat-boats  moved  swiftly 
along,  their  sails  white  in  the  sun ;  some  couples  were 
out  in  rowboats.  But  as  Gusta  looked  she  suddenly 
became  self-conscious ;  she  saw  that,  of  all  the  hun- 
dreds, she  was  the  only  one  alone.  Girls  moved  about, 
or  stood  and  talked  and  giggled  in  groups,  and  every 
girl  seemed  to  have  some  fellow  with  her.  Gusta  felt 
strange  and  out  of  place,  and  a  little  bitterness  rose  in 
her  heart.  The  band  swelled  into  a  livelier,  more  stri- 
dent strain,  and  Gusta  resented  this  sudden  burst  of 
joyousness.  She  turned  to  go  away,  but  just  then  she 
saw  that  a  young  man  had  stopped  and  was  looking  at 
her.  He  was  a  well-built  young  fellow,  as  strong  as 
Archie ;  he  had  dark  hair  and  a  small  mustache  curled 
upward  at  the  corners  in  a  foreign  way.  His  cheeks 
were  ruddy;  he  carried  a  light  cane  and  smoked  a 
cigar.  When  he  saw  that  Gusta  had  noticed  him  he 
smiled  and  Gusta  blushed.  Then  he  came  up  to  her 
and  took  off  his  hat. 

"Are  you  taking  a  walk  ?"  he  asked. 

'T  was  going  home,"  Gusta  replied.  She  wondered 
how  she  could  get  away  without  hurting  the  young 
man's  feelings,  for  he  seemed  to  be  pleasant,  harmless 
and  well  meaning. 


TIJE   TURN   OF   THE   BALANCE       123 

"It's  a  fine  day,"  he  said.  "There's  lots  o'  people 
out." 

"Yes,"  said  Gusta. 

"Where  Tx)uts  do  you  live  ?" 

"On  Bolt  Street." 

"Oh,  I  live  out  that  way  myself!"  said  the  young 
man.  "It's  quite  a  ways  from  here.  Been  out  to  see 
some  friends?" 

"Yes."  Gusta  hesitated.  "I  had  an  errand  to  do  out 
this  way." 

"Don't  you  want  to  go  in  the  park  and  see  the  zoo  ? 
There's  lots  of  funny  animals  back  there."  The  young 
man  pointed  with  his  little  cane  down  one  of  the  gravel 
walks  that  wound  among  the  trees.  Gusta  looked,  and 
saw  the  people — young  couples,  women  with  children, 
and  groups  of  young  men,  sauntering  that  way.  Then 
she  looked  at  the  street-cars,  loaded  heavily,  with  pas- 
sengers clinging  to  the  running-boards ;  she  was  tempt- 
ed to  go,  but  it  was  growing  late. 

"No,  thanks,"  she  said,  "I  must  be  going  home  now." 

"Are  you  going  to  walk  or  take  the  car  ?"  asked  the 
young  man. 

"I'll  walk,  I  guess,"  she  said ;  and  then,  lest  he  think 
she  had  no  car  fare,  she  added:  "the  cars  are  so 
crowded." 

She  started  then,  and  was  surprised  when  the  young 
man  naturally  walked  along  by  her  side,  swinging  his 
cane  and  talking  idly  to  her.  At  first  she  was  at  a  loss 
whether  to  let  him  walk  with  her  or  not;  she  had  a 
natural  fear,  a  modesty,  the  feminine  instinct,  but  she 
did  not  know  just  how  to  dismiss  him.  She  kept  her 
face  averted  and  her  eyes  downcast ;  but  finally,  when 


124   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

her  fears  had  subsided  a  little,  she  glanced  at  him  occa- 
sionally; she  saw  that  he  was  good-looking,  and  she 
considered  him  very  well  dressed.  He  had  a  gold  watch 
chain,  and  when  she  asked  him  what  time  it  was  he 
promptly  drew  out  a  watch.  Their  conversation,  from 
being  at  the  first  quite  general,  soon  became  personal, 
and  before  they  had  gone  far  Gusta  learned  that  the 
young  man's  name  was  Charlie  Peltzer,  that  he  was  a 
plumber,  and  that  sometimes  he  made  as  much  as 
twenty  dollars  a  week.  By  the  time  they  parted  at  the 
corner  near  Gusta's  home  they  felt  very  well  acquainted 
and  had  agreed  to  meet  again. 

After  that  they  met  frequently.  In  the  evening  after 
supper  Gusta  would  steal  out,  Peltzer  would  be  waiting 
for  her  at  the  corner,  and  they  would  stroll  under  the 
trees  that  were  rapidly  filling  with  leaves.  Once,  pass- 
ing Policeman  Crowley,  Gusta  saw  him  looking  at  them 
narrowly.  There  was  a  little  triangular  park  not  far 
from  Gusta's  home,  and  there  the  two  would  sit  all  the 
evening.  The  moon  was  full,  the  nights  were  soft  and 
mild  and  warm.  On  Sundays  they  went  to  the  park 
where  they  had  met,  and  now  and  then  they  danced  in 
the  public  pavilion.  But  Gusta  never  danced  with  any 
of  the  other  men  there,  nor  did  Peltzer  dance  with  any 
of  the  other  girls ;  they  danced  always  together,  looking 
into  each  other's  eyes.  Now  she  could  endure  the 
monotony  and  the  drudgery  at  home,  the  children's 
peevishness,  her  mother's  melancholy,  her  father's 
querulousness.  Even  Archie's  predicament  lost  its 
horror  and  its  sadness  for  her.  She  had  not  yet,  how- 
ever, told  Peltzer,  and  she  felt  ashamed  of  Archie,  as 
if,  in  creating  the  possibility  of  compromising  her,  he 
had  done  her  a  wrong.    She  went  about  in  a  dream, 


THE   TURN   OF  THE   BALANCE       125 

thinking  of  Peltzer  all  the  time,  and  of  the  wonderful 
thing  that  had  brought  all  this  happiness  into  her  life. 

Gusta  had  not,  however,  as  yet  allowed  Peltzer  to 
go  home  with  her ;  he  went  within  half  a  block  of  the 
house,  and  there,  in  the  shadow,  they  took  their  long 
farewell.  But  Peltzer  was  growing  more  masterful; 
each  night  he  insisted  on  going  a  little  nearer,  and  at 
last  one  night  he  clung  to  her,  bending  over  her,  look- 
ing into  her  blue  eyes,  his  lips  almost  on  hers,  and  be- 
fore they  were  aware  they  were  at  her  door.  Gusta  was 
aroused  by  Crowley's  voice.  Crowley  was  there  with 
her  father,  telling  him  again  the  one  incident  in  all  his 
official  career  that  had  distinguished  him  for  a  place  in 
the  columns  of  the  newspapers.  He  was  just  at  the 
climax  of  the  thrilling  incident,  and  they  heard  his 
voice  ring  out : 

"An'  I  kept  right  on  toowards  him,  an'  him  shootin' 
at  me  breasht  four  toimes — " 

He  had  got  up,  in  the  excitement  he  so  often  evoked 
in  living  over  that  dramatic  moment  again,  to  illustrate 
the  action,  and  he  saw  Gusta  and  Charlie.  Peltzer 
stopped,  withdrew  his  arm  hurriedly  from  Gusta's 
waist,  and  then  Crowley,  forgetting  his  story,  called 
out: 

"Oh-ho,  me  foine  bucko !" 

Then  Koerner  saw  Gusta,  and,  forgetting  for  a  mo- 
ment, tried  to  rise  to  his  feet,  then  dropped  back  again. 

"Who's  dot  feller  mit  you,  huh?  Who's  dot  now?" 
he  demanded. 

"Aw,  tut,  tut,  man,"  said  Crowley.  "Shure  an'  the 
girl  manes  no  harm  at  all — an'  the  laad,  he's  a  likely 
wan.  Shure  now,  Misther  Koerner,  don't  ye  be  haard 
on  them — they're  that  young  now !  An'  'tis  the  spring, 


126   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

do  ye  moind — and  it's  well  I  can  see  the  phite  flower 
on  the  thorn  tra  in  me  ould  home  these  days !" 

Gusta's  heart  and  Peltzer's  heart  warmed  to  Crow- 
ley, but  old  Koerner  said : 

**In  mit  you !" 

And  she  slipped  hurriedly  indoors. 

But  nothing  could  harm  her  now,  for  the  world  had 
changed. 


XV 


Archie  Koerner  served  his  thirty  days  in  the  work- 
house, then,  because  he  was  in  debt  to  the  State  for  the 
costs  and  had  no  money  with  which  to  pay  the  debt,  he 
was  kept  in  prison  ten  days  longer,  although  it  was 
against  the  constitution  of  that  State  to  imprison  a 
man  for  debt.  Forty  days  had  seemed  a  short  time  to 
Bostwick  when  he  pronounced  sentence ;  had  he  chosen, 
he  might  have  given  Archie  a  sentence,  in  fine  and  im- 
prisonment, that  would  have  kept  him  in  the  workhouse 
for  two  years;  he  frequently  did  this  with  thieves. 
These  forty  days,  too,  had  been  brief  to  Marriott,  and 
to  Eades,  and  they  had  been  brief  to  Elizabeth,  who 
had  found  new  happiness  in  the  fact  that  Mr.  Amos 
Hunter  had  given  Dick  a  position  in  the  banking  de- 
partment of  his  Title  and  Trust  Company.  These  forty 
days,  in  fact,  had  passed  swiftly  for  nearly  every  one  in 
the  city,  because  they  were  spring  days,  filled  with 
warm  sunshine  by  day,  and  soft  and  musical  showers 
by  night.  The  trees  were  pluming  themselves  in  new 
green,  the  birds  were  singing,  and  people  were  happy 
in  their  release  from  winter;  they  were  busied  about 
new  clothes,  with  riding  and  driving,  with  plans  for 
summer  vacations  and  schemes  for  the  future;  they 
were  all  imbued  with  the  spirit  of  hope  the  spring  had 
brought  to  the  world  again.  To  Gusta,  too,  in  her  love, 
these  days  had  passed  swiftly,  like  a  hazy,  golden 


128   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

But  to  Archie  these  forty  days  had  not  been  forty 
days  at  all,  but  a  time  of  infinite  duration.  He  counted 
each  day  as  it  dragged  by ;  he  counted  it  when  he  came 
from  his  bunk  in  the  morning ;  he  counted  it  every  hour 
during  the  long  day's  work  over  the  hideous  bricks  he 
could  find  no  joy  in  making;  he  counted  it  again  at 
evening,  and  the  last  thing  before  he  fell  asleep.  It 
seemed  that  forty  days  would  never  roll  around. 

They  did  pass  finally,  and  a  morning  came  when  he 
could  leave  the  comrades  of  his  misery.  He  felt  some 
regret  in  doing  this;  many  of  them  had  been  kind  to 
him,  and  friendships  had  been  developed  by  means  of 
whispers  and  signs,  but  more  by  the  silent  influence  of 
a  common  suffering.  He  had  quarreled  and  almost 
fought  with  some  of  them,  for  the  imprisonment  had 
developed  the  beast  that  was  in  them,  and  had  made 
many  of  them  morose,  ugly,  suspicious,  dangerous,  fill- 
ing them  with  a  kind  of  moral  insanity.  But  he  forgot 
all  these  enmities  in  the  joy  of  his  release,  and  he  bade 
his  friends  good-by  and  wished  them  luck.  In  the  su- 
perintendent's office  they  gave  him  back  his  clothes, 
and  he  went  out  again  into  the  world. 

It  was  strange  to  be  at  liberty  again.  His  first  un- 
conscious impulse  was  to  take  up  his  life  where  he  had 
left  it  off,  but  he  did  not  know  how  to  do  this.  For 
behind  him  stretched  an  unknown  time,  a  blank,  a 
break  in  his  existence,  which  refused  to  adjust  itself 
to  the  rest  of  his  life ;  it  bore  no  relation  to  that  exist- 
ence which  was  himself,  his  being,  and  yet  it  was  there. 
The  world  that  knew  no  such  blank  or  break  had  gone 
on  meanwhile  and  left  him  behind,  and  he  could  not 
catch  up  now.  He  was  like  a  man  who  had  been  un- 
conscious and  had  awakened  with  a  blurred  conception 


THE   TURN   OF   THE   BALANCE       129 

of  things ;  it  was  as  if  he  had  come  out  of  a  profound 
anaesthesia,  to  find  that  he  had  been  irrevocably  maimed 
by  some  unnecessary  operation  in  surgery. 

Archie  did  not,  of  course,  realize  all  this  clearly ;  had 
he  been  able  to  do  so,  he  might  have  avoided  some  of 
the  consequences.  But  he  had  a  troubled  sense  of 
change,  and  he  was  to  learn  it  and  realize  it  fully  only 
by  a  slow,  torturing  process,  a  bit  at  a  time.  He  had  the 
first  sensation  of  this  change  in  the  peculiar  gleam  that 
came  into  the  eye  of  a  policeman  he  passed  in  Market 
Place,  and  he  felt  it,  too,  when,  half  fearfully,  he  pre- 
sented himself  at  the  back  door  of  his  home.  His 
father's  fury  had  long  since  abated,  but  he  showed  that 
he  could  not  look  on  Archie  as  he  once  had  done,  and 
Gusta  showed  it,  too.  Bostwick  may  have  thought  he 
had  sentenced  Archie  to  forty  days  in  prison,  but  he 
had  really  sentenced  him  to  a  lifetime  in  prison ;  for  the 
influences  of  those  forty  days  could  never  leave  Archie 
now ;  the  shadows  of  that  prison  were  ever  lengthening, 
and  they  were  for  evermore  to  creep  with  him  wherever 
he  went,  keeping  him  always  within  their  shades.  He 
was  thereafter  to  be  but  an  umbra  at  the  feast  of  life. 

Archie  could  not  think  of  the  whole  matter  very 
clearly;  of  the  theft  of  which  he  had  been  conyicted 
he  scarcely  thought  at  all.  The  change  that  came  in 
the  world's  attitude  toward  him  did  not  seem  to  be 
concerned  with  that  act;  it  was  never  mentioned  or 
even  suggested  to  him  at  home  or  elsewhere.  The  thing 
that  marked  him  was  not  the  fact  that  he  had  been  a 
thief,  but  that  he  had  been  a  prisoner.  When  he  did 
think  of  the  theft,  he  told  himself  that  he  had  paid  for 
that;  the  score  had  been  wiped  out;  the  world  had 
Jiaken  its  revenge  on  him.  This  revenge  was  expressed 


130   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

by  the  smile  that  lit  up  the  face  of  the  grocer  whose 
herrings  had  been  stolen ;  it  had  been  shown  in  the 
satisfaction  of  the  prosecutor  when  the  judge  an- 
nounced his  finding;  it  had  been  expressed  by  the 
harshness  of  the  superintendent  and  the  guards  at  the 
workhouse;  it  was  shown  even  by  the  glance  of  that 
policeman  he  met  in  the  Market.  The  world  had 
wreaked  its  vengeance  on  him,  and  Archie  felt  that  it 
should  be  satisfied  now. 

There  was  but  one  place  now  where  the  atmosphere 
lacked  the  element  of  suspicion  and  distrust,  but  one 
place  where  he  was  not  made  to  feel  the  barrier  that 
separated  him  from  other  men,  and  that  was  with  the 
gang.  The  gang  welcomed  him  with  a  frank  hearti- 
ness ;  they  showed  almost  the  same  eagerness  and  pleas- 
ure in  him  that  they  showed  in  welcoming  Spud  and  the 
others.  There  was  balm  in  their  welcome ;  they  asked 
no  questions,  they  drew  no  distinctions ;  to  them  he  was 
the  same  old  Archie,  only  grown  nearer  because  now 
he  could  unite  with  them  in  experience — they  all  had 
those  same  gaps  in  their  lives. 

That  afternoon  they  celebrated  with  cans  of  beer  in 
the  shade  of  a  lumber  pile,  and  that  night  the  gang 
went  down  the  line.  Having  some  money,  they  were 
welcome  in  all  the  little  saloons,  and  the  girls  in  short 
dresses,  who  stood  about  the  bars  rolling  cigarettes 
constantly,  were  glad  to  see  them.  And  Archie  found 
that  no  questions  were  asked  here,  that  no  distinctions 
were  made  even  when  respected,  if  not  respectable,  men 
appeared,  even  when  the  prosecutor  of  the  police  court 
came  along  with  a  companion,  and  spent  a  portion  of 
the  salary  these  people  contributed  so  heavily  to  pay, 
even  when  the  detectives  came  and  received  the  tribute 


THE   TURN   OF  THE   BALANCE      131 

money.  And  it  dawned  on  Archie  that  here  was  a 
Httle  quarter  of  the  world  where  he  was  wanted,  where 
he  was  made  to  feel  at  home,  where  that  gap  in  his  life 
made  no  difference.  It  was  a  small  quarter,  covering 
scarcely  more  than  a  dozen  blocks.  It  was  filled  with 
miserable  buildings,  painted  garishly  and  blazing  with 
light;  there  was  ever  the  music  of  pianos  and  orches- 
tras, and  in  the  saloons  that  were  half  theaters,  bands 
blared  out  rapid  tunes.  And  here  was  swarming  life; 
here,  in  the  midst  of  death.  But  it  was  an  important 
quarter  of  the  town;  in  rents  and  dividends  and  fines 
it  contributed  largely  of  the  money  it  made  at  such  risk 
and  sacrifice  of  body  and  of  soul,  to  all  that  was  ac- 
counted good  and  great  in  the  city.  It  helped  to  pay 
the  salaries  of  the  mayor  and  the  judges  and  the  pros- 
ecutors and  the  clerks  and  the  detectives  and  the  police- 
men ;  some  of  its  money  went  to  support  in  idleness  and 
luxury  many  dainty  and  exclusive  women  in  Clay- 
bourne  Avenue,  to  build  enormous  churches,  to  pay  for 
stained-glass  windows  with  pictures  of  Christ  and  the 
Magdalene,  pictures  that  in  soft  artistic  hues  lent  a 
gentle  religious  and  satisfying  melancholy  to  the  ladies 
and  gentlemen  who  sat  in  their  pews  on  Sundays;  it 
even  helped  to  send  missionaries  to  far  countries  like 
Japan  and  China  and  India  and  Africa,  in  order  that 
the  heathen  who  lived  there  might  receive  the  light  of 
the  Cross. 

While  in  the  workhouse  Archie  had  occupied  the 
same  cell  with  a  man  called  Joseph  Mason,  which  was 
not  his  name.  The  prison  was  crowded,  and  it  was 
necessary  for  the  prisoners  to  double  up.  The  cells 
were  narrow  and  had  two  bunks,  one  above  and  the 
Other  below — there  was  as  much  room  as  there  is  in  a 


132   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

section  of  a  sleeping-car.  In  these  cells  the  men  slept 
and  ate  and  lived,  spending  all  the  time  they  did  not 
pass  at  labor  in  the  brick-yard.  During  those  forty 
days  Archie  became  well  acquainted  with  Mason ;  they 
sat  on  their  little  stools  all  day  Sunday  and  talked,  and 
when  they  climbed  into  their  bunks  at  night  they  whis- 
pered. They  shared  with  each  other  their  surreptitious 
matches  and  tobacco — all  they  had. 

This  man  Mason  was  nearly  fifty  years  old.  His 
close-cropped  hair  and  his  close-shaven  beard  gave  his 
head  and  cheeks  and  lips  a  uniform  color  of  dark  blue ; 
his  lips  were  thin  and  compressed  from  a  habit  of  taci- 
turnity, his  eyes  were  small,  bright  and  alert;  at  any 
sound  he  would  turn  quickly  and  glance  behind  him. 
He  had  spent  twenty  years  in  prison — ten  years  in 
Dannemora,  five  in  Columbus,  three  in  Allegheny  and 
two  in  Joliet.  This,  however,  did  not  include  the  time 
he  had  been  shut  up  in  police  stations,  calabooses, 
county  jails  and  workhouses.  In  the  present  instance 
he  had  been  arrested  for  pocket-picking,  and  had 
agreed  to  plead  guilty  if  the  offense  were  reduced  to 
petit  larceny ;  the  authorities  had  accepted  his  proposal, 
and  he  had  been  sentenced  to  six  months  in  the  work' 
house.  He  had  served  four  and  a  half  months  of  his 
sentence  when  Archie  went  into  the  workhouse. 

The  only  time  when  Mason  showed  any  marked 
sense  of  humor  was  when  he  told  Archie  of  his  having 
confessed  to  pocket-picking.  The  truth  was  that  he 
was  totally  innocent  of  this  crime,  and  if  the  police  had 
been  wise  they  would  have  known  this.  Mason  was  a 
Johnny  Yegg,  that  is,  an  itinerant  safe-blower.  As  a 
yegg  man,  of  course,  he  never  had  picked  a  pocket,  and 
could  not  have  done  so  had  he  wished,  for  he  did  not 


THE   TURN   OF   THE   BALANCE       133 

know  how ;  and  if  he  had  known  how,  still  he  would 
not  have  done  so,  for  the  yeggs  held  such  crimes  as 
picking  pockets  in  contempt.  All  of  the  terms  he  had 
served  in  states'  prisons  had  been  for  blowing  safes, 
and  all  of  the  safes  had  been  in  rural  post-offices.  The 
technical  charge  was  burglary,  though  he  was  not  a 
burglar,  either,  in  the  sense  of  entering  dwellings  by 
night;  this  was  a  class  of  thieving  left  to  prowlers. 
The  preceding  fall,  however,  a  safe  had  been  blown  in 
a  country  post-office  near  the  city,  and  Mason  knew  that 
the  United  States  inspectors  would  suspect  him  if  they 
found  him,  and  while  he  had  been  innocent  of  that  par- 
ticular crime,  he  knew  that  this  would  make  no  differ- 
ence to  the  inspectors ;  they  would  willingly  "job"  him, 
as  he  expressed  it,  justifying  the  act  to  any  one  who 
might  question  it — they  would  not  need  to  justify  it  to 
themselves — by  arguing  that  if  he  had  not  blown  that 
particular  safe  he  had  blown  others,  so  that  the  balance 
would  be  dressed  in  the  end.  Consequently,  when  the 
police  arrested  him  for  pocket-picking,  he  hailed  it  as  a 
stroke  of  good  fortune  and  looked  on  the  workhouse 
as  an  asylum.  He  had  been  a  model  prisoner,  and  had 
given  the  authorities  no  trouble.  He  did  this  partly 
because  he  was  a  philosophical  fellow,  patient  and  un- 
complaining, partly  because  he  did  not  wish  to  attract 
attention  to  himself.  His  picture  and  his  measure- 
ments, taken  according  to  the  Bertillon  system,  were  in 
every  police  station  in  the  land. 

Mason  told  Archie  many  interesting  stories  of  his 
life,  of  cooking  over  a  fire  in  the  woods,  riding  on 
freight  trains,  of  hang-outs  in  sand-houses,  and  so  on, 
and  he  told  circumstantially  of  numerous  crimes, 
thoygh  i*ever  did  he  identify  himself  as  concerned  in 


134   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

any  of  them  excepting  those  of  which  he  had  been  con- 
victed, and  in  these  he  did  not  give  the  names  of  his 
accomplices.  Before  their  companionship  ended  he 
had  taught  Archie  the  distinctions  between  yegg  men 
and  peter  men  and  gay  cats,  guns  of  various  kinds, 
prowlers,  and  sure-thing  men,  and  the  other  unidenti- 
fied horde  of  criminals  who  belong  to  none  of  these 
classes. 

He  had  taught  Archie  also  many  little  tricks  whereby 
a  convict's  lot  may  be  lightened — as,  for  instance,  how 
to  split  with  a  pin  one  match  into  four  matches,  how 
to  pass  little  things  from  one  cell  to  another  by  a 
"trolley"  or  piece  of  string,  how  to  lie  on  a  board,  and 
so  on.  But,  above  all,  he  had  set  Archie  the  example  of 
a  patient  man  who  took  things  as  they  came,  without 
question  or  complaint. 

Archie  missed  Mason.  He  could  see  him  sitting  in 
the  gloom  of  their  little  cell,  upright  and  almost  never 
moving,  talking  in  a  low  tone,  his  lips,  which  had  a 
streak  of  tobacco  always  on  them,  moving  slowly,  shut- 
ting tightly  after  each  sentence,  until  he  had  swallowed, 
then  deliberately  he  would  go  on.  Mason's  view  of  life 
interested  Archie,  who,  up  to  that  time,  had  never 
thought  at  all,  had  never  made  any  distinctions,  and  so 
had  no  view  of  life  at  all.  Many  of  Mason's  views 
were  striking  in  their  insight,  many  were  childish  in 
their  lack  of  it;  they  were  curiously  straightforward 
at  times,  at  others  astonishingly  oblique.  He  had  a 
great  hatred  of  sham  and  pretense,  and  he  considered 
all  so-called  respectable  people  as  hypocrites.  He  had 
about  the  same  contempt  for  them  that  he  had  for  the 
guns,  who  were  sneaks,  he  said,  afraid  to  take  chances. 


■i 


THE   TURN    OF   THE    BALANCE       135 

He  had  a  high  admiration  for  boldness  and  courage, 
and  a  great  love  of  adventure,  and  he  thought  that  all 
these  qualities  were  best  exemplified  in  yegg  men.  For 
the  courts  he  had  no  respect  at  all ;  his  contempt  was 
so  deep-rooted  that  he  never  once  considered  the  pos- 
sibility of  their  doing  justice,  and  spoke  as  if  it  were 
axiomatic  that  they  could  not  do  justice  if  they  tried. 
He  had  the  same  contempt  for  the  church,  although  he 
seemed  to  know  much  about  the  life  of  Jesus  and  had 
respect  for  His  teachings.  He  called  the  people  who 
came  to  pray  and  sing  on  Sundays  "mission  stiffs" ;  he 
treated  them  respectfully  enough,  but  he  told  Archie 
that  those  prisoners  who  took  an  interest  in  the  services 
did  so  that  they  might  secure  favors  and  perhaps  par- 
dons. He  had  known  many  convicts  to  secure  their 
liberty  in  that  way,  and  while  he  gave  them  credit  for 
cleverness  and  was  not  disposed  to  blame  them,  still  he 
did  not  respect  them.  Such  convicts  he  called  "false 
alarms." 

There  were  one  or  two  judges  before  whom  he  had 
been  tried  that  he  admired  and  thought  to  be  good 
men.  He  did  not  blame  them  for  the  sentences  they 
had  given  him,  but  explained  to  Archie  that  they  had 
to  do  this  as  an  incident  of  their  business,  and  he  spoke 
as  if  they  might  have  shared  his  own  regret  in  the  cruel 
necessity.  Of  all  prosecutors,  however,  he  had  a 
hatred;  especially  of  Eades,  of  whom  he  seemed  to 
have  heard  much.  He  told  Archie  that  as  a  result  of 
Eades's  severity  the  thieves  some  day  would  "rip"  the 
town. 

He  looked  on  his  own  occupation  and  spoke  of  it  as 
any  man  might  look  on  his  pwn  occupation ;  it  simply 


136   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

happened  that  that  was  his  business.  He  seemed  to  con- 
sider it  as  honest  as,  or  at  least  no  more  dishonest  than, 
any  other  business.  He  had  certain  standards,  and 
these  he  maintained.  On  the  whole,  however,  he  con- 
cluded that  his  business  hardly  paid,  though  it  had  its 
compensations  in  its  adventure  and  in  its  free  life. 


XVI 

Archie  was  loitering  along  Market  Place,  not  sure 
of  what  he  would  do  that  evening,  but  ready  for  any 
sensation  chance  might  offer.  Men  were  brushing 
through  the  flapping  green  doors  of  the  small  saloons, 
talking  loudly,  and  swearing,  many  of  them  already 
drunk.  Pianos  were  going,  and  above  all  the  din  he 
heard  the  grating  of  a  phonograph  grinding  out  the 
song  some  minstrel  once  had  sung  to  a  banjo;  the 
banjo  notes  were  realistic,  but  the  voice  of  the  singer 
floated  above  the  babel  of  voices  like  the  mere  ghost 
of  a  voice,  inhuman  and  not  alive,  as  perhaps  the  singer 
might  not  then  have  been  alive.  Archie,  wondering 
where  the  gang  was,  suddenly  met  Mason.  The  sight 
gave  him  real  pleasure. 

"Hello,  Joe !"  he  cried  as  he  seized  Mason^s  hand. 

Mason  smiled  faintly,  but  Archie's  joy  made  him 
happy. 

"Je's,"  said  Archie,  "Pm  glad  to  see  you — it  makes 
me  feel  better.  When  M  you  get  out  ?" 

"This  morning,"  Mason  replied.  "Which  way  ?" 

"Oh,  anywhere,"  said  Archie.  "Where  you  goin'  ?" 

"Up  to  Gibbs's.  Want  to  go 'long?" 

Archie's  heart  gave  a  little  start;  to  go  to  Danny 
Gibbs's  under  Mason's  patronage  would  be  a  distinc- 
tion. The  evening  opened  all  at  once  with  sparkling 
possibilities. 

137 


138   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

"An  old  friend  o'  mine's  there,"  Mason  explained 
as  they  walked  along  up  Kentucky  Street.  **He's  just 
got  out  of  a  shooting  scrape;  he  croaked  that  fellow 
Benny  Moon.    Remember?" 

Gibbs's  place  was  scarcely  more  than  a  block  away ; 
it  displayed  no  sign ;  a  three-story  building  of  brick,  a 
side  door,  and  a  plate-glass  window  in  front ;  a  curtain 
hiding  half  the  window,  a  light  above — that  was  all. 

Mason  entered  with  an  assurance  that  impressed 
Archie,  who  had  never  before  felt  the  need  of  assur- 
ance in  entering  a  saloon.  He  looked  about;  it  was 
like  any  other  saloon,  a  long  bar  and  a  heavy  mirror 
that  reflected  the  glasses  and  the  bottles  of  green  and 
yellow  liqueurs  arranged  before  it.  At  one  table  sat  a 
tattered  wreck  of  a  man,  his  head  bowed  on  his  fore- 
arms crossed  on  the  table,  fast  asleep — one  of  the  many 
broken  lives  that  found  with  Danny  Gibbs  a  refuge. 
Over  the  mirror  behind  the  bar  hung  an  opium  pipe, 
long  since  disused,  serving  as  a  relic  now,  the  dreams 
with  which  it  had  once  relieved  the  squalor  and  re- 
morse of  a  wasted  life  long  since  broken. 

At  Mason's  step,  however,  there  was  a  stir  in  the 
room  behind  the  bar-room,  and  a  woman  entered.  She 
walked  heavily,  as  if  her  years  and  her  flesh  were  bur- 
densome ;  her  face  was  heavy,  tired  and  expressionless. 
She  was  plainly  making  for  the  bar,  as  if  to  keep  alive 
the  pretense  of  a  saloon,  but  when  she  saw  Mason  she 
stopped,  her  face  lighted  up,  becoming  all  at  once 
matronly  and  pleasant,  and  she  smiled  as  she  came  for- 
ward, holding  out  a  hand. 

"Why,  Joe,"  she  said,  "is  that  you?  When  did  you 
get  out?" 

"This  morning,"  he  said.    "Where's  Dan  ?" 


THE   TURN    OF   THE    BALANCE       139 

"He's  back  here ;  come  in,"  and  she  turned  and  led 
the  way. 

Mason  followed,  drawing  Archie  behind  him,  and 
they  entered  the  room  behind  the  bar-room.  The  at- 
mosphere changed — the  room  was  light,  it  was  lived  in, 
and  the  four  men  seated  at  a  round  bare  table  gave  to 
the  place  its  proper  character.  Three  of  the  men  had 
small  tumblers  filled  with  whisky  before  them,  the 
fourth  had  none;  he  sat  tilted  back  in  his  chair,  his 
stiff  hat  pulled  down  over  his  eyes,  his  hands  sunk  in 
the  pockets  of  his  trousers ;  his  fat  thighs  flattened  on 
the  edge  of  his  chair.  He  was  dressed  in  modest  gray, 
and  might  have  been  taken  for  a  commonplace  business 
man.  He  lifted  his  blue  eyes  quickly  and  glanced  at 
the  intruders ;  his  face  was  round  and  cleanly  shaved, 
save  for  a  little  blond  mustache  that  curled  at  the  cor- 
ners of  his  mouth.  His  hair,  of  the  same  color  as  his 
mustache,  glistened  slightly  at  the  temples,  where  it 
was  touched  by  gray.  This  man  had  no  whisky  glass 
before  him — he  did  not  drink,  but  he  sat  there  with  an 
air  of  presiding  over  this  little  session,  plainly  vested 
with  some  authority — sat,  indeed,  as  became  Danny 
Gibbs,  the  most  prominent  figure  in  the  under  world. 

Gibbs's  place  was  only  ostensibly  a  saloon ;  in  reality 
it  was  a  clearing-house  for  thieves,  where  accounts 
were  settled  with  men  who  had  been  robbed  under  cir- 
cumstances that  made  it  advisable  for  them  to  keep 
the  matter  secret,  and  where  balances  were  adjusted 
with  the  police.  All  the  thieves  of  the  higher  class — 
those  who  traveled  on  railway  trains  and  steamboats, 
fleecing  men  in  games  of  cards,  those  of  that  class  who 
were  well-dressed,  well-informed,  pleasant-mannered, 
apparently   respectable,   who   passed   everywhere   for 


140   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

men  of  affairs,  and  stole  enormous  sums  by  means  of 
a  knowledge  of  human  nature  that  was  almost  miracu- 
lous— were  friends  of  Gibbs.  He  negotiated  for  them ; 
he  helped  them  when  they  were  in  trouble ;  when  they 
were  in  the  city  they  lived  at  his  house — sometimes  they 
lived  on  him.  The  two  upper  floors  of  his  establish- 
ment, fitted  like  a  hotel,  held  many  strange  and  mys- 
terious guests.  Gibbs  maintained  the  same  relation  with 
the  guns,  the  big-mitt  men,  and  sneak-thieves,  and  he 
bore  the  same  relation  to  the  yegg  men  and  to  the 
prowlers.  By  some  marvelous  tact  he  kept  apart  all 
these  classes,  so  different,  so  antipathetic,  so  jealous 
and  suspicious  of  one  another,  and  when  they  happened 
to  meet  he  kept  them  on  terms.  There  never  were  loud 
words  or  trouble  at  Gibbs's.  To  all  these  classes  of 
professional  criminals  he  was  a  kind  of  father,  an  ever- 
ready  friend  who  never  forgot  or  deserted  them.  When 
they  were  in  jail  he  sent  lawyers  to  them,  he  provided 
them  with  delicacies,  he  paid  their  fines.  Sometimes  he 
obtained  pardons  and  commutations  for  them,  for  he 
was  naturally  influential  in  politics  and  maintained  re- 
lations with  Ralph  Keller,  the  boss  of  the  city,  that 
were  as  close  as  those  he  maintained  with  the  police. 
He  could  provide  votes  for  primaries,  and  he  could  do 
other  things.  The  police  never  molested  him,  though 
now  and  then  they  threatened  to,  and  then  he  was 
forced  to  increase  the  tribute  money,  already  enormous. 
A  part  of  his  understanding  with  the  police,  a  clause  in 
the  modus  vivendi,  was  that  certain  friends  of  Gibbs's 
were  to  be  harbored  in  the  city  on  condition  that  they 
committed  no  crimes  while  there ;  now  and  then  when  a 
crime  was  committed  in  the  city,  it  would  be  made  the 
excuse  by  the  police  for  further  extortion.  The  detec- 


THE  TURN   OF  THE   BALANCE       141 

tives  came  and  went  as  freely  at  Gibbs's  as  the  guns, 
the  yeggs,  the  prowlers,  the  sure-thing  men,  the  gam- 
blers and  bunco  men. 

"Ah,  Joe,"  said  Gibbs,  glancing  at  Mason. 

"Dan,"  said  Mason,  as  he  took  a  chair  beside  Gibbs. 
They  had  spoken  in  low,  quiet  tones,  yet  somehow  the 
simplicity  of  their  greeting  suggested  a  friendship  that 
antedated  all  things  of  the  present,  stretching  back  into 
other  days,  recalling  ties  that  had  been  formed  at  times 
and  under  circumstances  that  were  lost  in  the  past  and 
forgotten  by  every  one,  even  the  police.  However  well 
the  other  three  might  have  known  Gibbs,  they  deli- 
cately implied  that  their  relation  could  not  be  so  close 
as  that  of  Joe  Mason,  and  they  were  silent  for  an  in- 
stant, as  if  they  would  pay  a  tribute  to  it.  But  the 
silence  held,  losing  all  at  once  its  deference  to  the 
friendship  of  Gibbs  and  Mason,  and  taking  on  a  quality 
of  constraint,  cold  and  repellent,  plainly  due  to  Archie's 
presence.  Archie  felt  this  instantly,  and  Mason  felt  it, 
for  he  knew  the  ways  of  his  kind,  and,  turning  to  Gibbs, 
he  said : 

"A  friend  of  mine ;  met  him  in  the  boob."  And  then 
he  said :  "Mr.  Gibbs,  let  me  introduce  Mr.  Koerner." 

Gibbs  looked  at  Archie  keenly  and  gave  him  his 
hand.  Then  Mason  introduced  Archie  to  the  three 
other  men — ^Jackson,  Mandell  and  Keenan.  Gibbs, 
meanwhile,  turned  to  his  wife,  who  had  taken  a  chair 
against  the  wall  and  folded  her  arms. 

"Get  Joe  and  his  friend  something  to  drink,  Kate," 
he  commanded.  The  woman  rose  wearily,  asked  them 
what  they  wished  to  drink,  and  went  into  the  bar-room 
for  the  whisky  glasses. 

The  little  company  had  accepted  Archie  tentatively 


142   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

on  Mason's  assurance,  but  they  resumed  their  conver- 
sation guardedly  and  without  spontaneity.  Mason, 
however,  gave  it  a  start  again  when  he  turned  to 
Jackson  and  said : 

"Well,  Curly,  I  read  about  your  trouble.  I  was  glad 
you  wasn't  ditched.  I  thought  for  a  while  there  that 
you  was  the  fall  guy,  all  right." 

Jackson  laughed  without  mirth  and  flecked  the  ash 
from  his  cigarette. 

"Yes,  Joe,  I  come  through." 

"He  sprung  you  down  there,  too !"  said  Mason  with 
more  surprise  than  Archie  had  ever  known  him  to 
show.  *T  figured  you'd  waive,  anyhow." 

"Well,  I  wanted  a  show-down,  d'ye  see  ?'*  said  Jack- 
son. "I  knew  they  couldn't  hold  me  on  the  square." 

"Didn't  they  know  anything  ?" 

"Who,  them  chuck  coppers  ?"  Jackson  sneered.  "Not 
a  thing ;  they  guessed  a  whole  lot,  and  when  I  got  out 
they  asked  if  I'd  object  to  be  mugged."  Jackson  was 
showing  his  perfect  teeth  in  a  smile  that  attracted 
Archie.  "They'd  treated  me  so  well,  I  was  ready  to 
oblige  them — d'ye  see? — and  I  let  'em — so  they  took 
my  Bertillon.  I  didn't  think  one  more  would  hurt 
much." 

Jackson  looked  down  at  the  table  and  smiled  intro- 
spectively.  The  smile  won  Archie  completely.  He  was 
looking  at  Jackson  with  admiration  in  his  eyes,  and 
Jackson,  suddenly  noticing  him,  conveyed  to  Archie 
subtly  a  sense  of  his  own  pleasure  in  the  boy's  admira- 
tion. 

"Well,  I  tell  you,  Curly,"  Mason  was  going  on.  "You 
done  right — that  fink  got  just  what  was  comin'  to  him. 
You  showed  the  nerve,  too.  I  couldn't  'ave  waited  half 


THE   TURN   OF   THlfi   BALANCE       143 

that  long.  But  I  didn't  think  you'd  stand  a  show  with 
Bostwick.  I  knowed  you'd  get  off  in  front  of  a  jury, 
but  I  had  my  misdoubts  about  that  fellow  Eades.  God  I 
he's  a  cold  proposition !  But  in  front  of  Bostwick — !" 
Mason  slowly  and  incredulously  ■  shook  his  head,  then 
ended  by  swallowing  his  little  glassful  of  whisky  sud- 
denly. 

"Well,  you  see,  Joe,"  Jackson  began,  speaking  in  a 
high,  shrill  voice,  as  if  it  were  necessary  to  convince 
Mason,  "there  was  nothin'  to  it.  There  was  no  chance 
for  the  bulls  to  job  me  on  this  thing,"  and  he  went 
on  to  explain,  as  if  he  had  to  vindicate  his  exercise  of 
judgment  in  a  delicate  situation,  seeming  to  forget  how 
completely  the  outcome  had  justified  it. 

Archie  had  scarcely  noticed  Keenan  and  Mandell; 
once  he  had  wrested  his  eyes  from  Gibbs,  he  had 
not  taken  them  from  Jackson.  He  had  been  puzzled  at 
first,  but  now,  in  a  flash,  he  recognized  in  Jackson  the 
man  who  had  shot  Moon. 

"You  see,  Joe,"  Mandell  suddenly  spoke  up — ^his 
voice  was  a  rumbling  bass  in  harmony  with  his  heavy 
jaws — "it  was  a  clear  case  of  self-defense.  The  sham- 
ming-pusher  starts  out  to  clean  up  down  the  line,  he 
unsloughs  up  there  by  Connie's  place  on  Caldwell,  and 
musses  a  wingy,  and  then  he  goes  across  the  street  and 
bashes  a  dinge;  he  goes  along  that  way,  bucklin'  into 
everybody  he  meets,  until  he  meets  Curly,  who  was 
standing  down  there  by  Sailor  Coin's  drum  chinnin' 
Steve  Noonan — he  goes  up  to  them  and  begins.  Curly 
mopes  off;  he  dogs  him  down  to  Cliff  Decker's  cor- 
ner, catches  up  and  gives  Curly  a  clout  in  the  gash — " 

Mason  was  listening  intently,  leaning  forward,  his 
keen  eyes  fixed  on  Mandell's.  He  was  glad,  at  last,  to 


144   THE  TURN  OE  THE  BALANCE 

have  the  story  from  one  he  could  trust  to  give  the  de- 
tails correctly ;  theretofore  he  had  had  nothing  but  the 
accounts  in  the  newspapers,  and  he  had  no  more  confi- 
dence in  the  newspapers  than  he  had  in  the  courts  or 
the  churches,  or  any  other  institution  of  the  world 
above  him.  Archie  listened,  too,  finding  a  new  fascina- 
tion in  the  tale,  though  he  had  had  it  already  from  one 
of  the  gang,  Pat  Whalen,  who  had  been  fortunate 
enough  to  see  the  tragedy,  and  had  had  the  distinction 
of  testifying  in  the  case.  Whalen  had  seen  Moon,  a 
bartender  with  pugilistic  ambitions,  make  an  unpro- 
voked assault  on  Jackson,  follow  him  to  the  corner,  and 
knock  him  down;  he  had  seen  Jackson  stagger  to  his 
feet,  draw  his  revolver  and  back  away.  He  had  told 
Archie  how  deathly  white  Jackson's  face  had  gone  as 
he  backed,  backed,  a  whole  block,  a  crowd  following, 
and  Moon  coming  after,  cursing  and  swearing,  taunt- 
ing Jackson,  daring  him  to  shoot,  telling  him  he  was 
"four-flushing  wuth  that  smoke-wagon,"  warning  him 
to  make  a  good  job  when  he  did  shoot,  for  he  intended 
to  make  him  eat  his  gun.  He  had  told  how  marvel- 
ously  cool  Jackson  was ;  he  had  said  in  a  low  voice,  "I 
don't  want  to  shoot  you — I  just  want  you  to  let  me 
alone."  And  Whalen  had  described  how  Moon  had 
flung  off  his  coat,  how  bystanders  had  tried  to  restrain 
him,  how  he  had  rushed  on,  how  Jackson  had  gone 
into  the  vacant  lot  by  old  Jim  Peppers's  shanty,  coming 
out  on  the  other  side,  until  he  was  met  by  Eva  Clason, 
who  tried  to  open  a  gate  and  let  Jackson  into  the  brothel 
she  called  home.  Whalen  had  given  Archie  a  sense  of 
the  ironical  fate  that  that  day  had  led  Eva's  piano 
player  to  nail  up  the  gate  so  that  the  chickens  she  had 
bought  could  not  get  out  of  the  yard.  The  gate  would 


THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE   145 

not  open  and  Moon  was  on  him  again;  and  Jackson 
backed  and  backed,  clear  around  to  the  sidewalk  on 
Caldwell  Street,  and  then,  when  he  had  completed  the 
circuit.  Moon  had  sprung  at  him.  Then  the  revolver 
had  cracked,  the  crowd  closed  in,  and  there  lay  Moon 
on  the  sidewalk,  dead — ^and  Jackson  looking  down  at 
him.  Then  the  cries  for  air,  the  patrol  wagon,  and  the 
police. 

As  Mandell  told  the  story  now,  Archie  kept  his  eyes 
on  Jackson.  At  the  point  where  he  had  said,  'T  don't 
want  to  shoot  you,"  Jackson's  eyes  grew  moist  with 
tears;  he  blinked  and  knocked  the  ashes  from  his 
cigarette  with  the  nail  of  his  little  finger,  sprinkling 
them  on  the  floor.  When  Mandell  had  done.  Mason 
looked  up  at  Jackson. 

"Well,  Curly,"  he  said,  "you  had  the  right  nerve." 

"Nerve!"  said  Mandell.  "I  guess  so!" 

"Nerve!"  repeated  Keenan.  "He  had  enough  for  a 
whole  mob !" 

"Ach!"  said  Jackson,  twisting  away  from  them  on 
his  chair. 

"I'd  'a'  let  him  have  it  when  he  first  bashed  me,"  said 
Keenan. 

?  "Yes !"  cried  Jackson  suddenly,  rising  and  catching 
his  chair  by  the  back.  "Yes — and  been  settled  for  it ! 
I  didn't  want  to  do  it ;  I  didn't  want  to  get  into  trouble. 
You  always  was  that  way,  Jimmy." 

Archie  looked  at  Curly  Jackson  as  he  stood  with 
an  arm  outstretched  toward  Keenan ;  his  figure  was  tall 
and  straight  and  slender,  and  as  he  noted  the  short 
brown  curls  that  gave  him  his  name,  the  tanned  cheeks, 
the  attitude  in  which  he  held  himself,  something  con- 
fused Archie,  some  thought  he  could  not  catch — some 


146   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

idea  that  evaded  him,  coming  near  till  he  was  just  on 
the  point  of  grasping  it,  then  eluding  him,  like  a  name 
one  tries  desperately  to  recall. 

i  "I  didn't  have  my  finger  on  the  trigger,"  Jackson 
went  on,  speaking  in  his  high,  shrill,  excited  voice.  "I 
held  it  on  the  trigger-guard  all  the  time." 
!  And  then  suddenly  it  came  to  Archie — that  bronzed 
skin,  that  set  of  the  shoulders,  that  trimness,  that  alert- 
ness, that  coolness,  Jackson  could  have  got  nowhere  but 
in  the  army.  He  had  been  a  soldier — what  was  more, 
he  had  been  a  regular.  And  Archie  felt  something  like 
devotion  for  him. 

"Sit  down.  Curly,"  said  Gibbs,  and  Jackson  sank  into 
his  chair.  A  minute  later  Jackson  turned  to  Mason  and 
said  quietly : 

"You  see,  Joe,  I  don't  like  to  talk  about  it — ^nor  to 
think  of  it.  I  didn't  want  to  kill  him,  God  knows.  I 
don't  see  anything  in  it  to  get  swelled  about  and  be  the 
wise  guy." 


XVII 

Curly  Jackson  sat  for  a  moment  idly  making  little 
circles  on  the  polished  surface  of  the  table  with  the 
moist  bottom  of  his  glass;  then  abruptly  he  rose  and 
left  the  room.  The  others  followed  him  with  their 
eyes.  Archie  was  deeply  interested.  He  longed  to  talk 
to  Jackson,  longed  to  show  him  how  he  admired  him, 
but  he  was  timid  in  this  company,  and  felt  that  it  be- 
came him  best  to  remain  quiet.  But  Jackson's  conduct 
in  the  tragedy  had  fired  Archie's  imagination,  and 
Jackson  was  as  much  the  hero  in  his  eyes  as  he  was  in 
the  eyes  of  his  companions.  And  then  Archie  thought 
of  his  own  skill  with  the  carbine  and  the  revolver,  and 
he  wished  he  could  display  it  to  these  men ;  perhaps  in 
that  way  he  could  attract  their  notice  and  gain  their 
approval. 

"He  doesn't  want  to  talk  about  it,"  said  Mason  when 
Jackson  had  disappeared. 

"No,"  said  Gibbs.  "Let  him  alone." 

Jackson  was  gone  but  a  few  minutes,  and  then  he 
returned  and  quietly  took  his  seat  at  the  table.  They 
talked  of  other  things  then,  but  Archie  could  under- 
stand little  they  said,  for  they  spoke  in  a  language  that 
was  almost  wholly  unintelligible  to  him.  But  he  sat 
and  listened  with  a  bewildering  sense  of  mystery  that 
made  their  conversation  all  the  more  fascinating.  What 
they  said  conveyed  to  him  a  sense  of  a  wild,  rough, 
dangerous  life  that  was  full  of  adventure  and  a  kind  of 

147 


148   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

low  romance,  and  Archie  felt  tliat  he  would  like  to 
know  these  men  better ;  if  possible,  to  be  one  of  them, 
and  at  the  thought  his  heart  beat  faster,  as  at  the  sud- 
den possibility  of  a  new  achievement. 

As  they  talked  voices  were  heard  in  the  bar-room 
outside,  and  presently  a  huge  man  stood  in  the  door- 
way. He  was  fully  six  feet  in  height,  and  blond.  His 
face  was  red,  and  he  was  dressed  in  dark  gray  clothes, 
a  blue  polka-dotted  cravat  giving  his  attire  its  one 
touch  of  color.  He  reminded  Archie  of  some  one,  and 
he  tried  to  think  who  that  person  was. 

"Oh,  Dan,"  the  man  in  the  doorway  said,  "come  here 
a  minute." 

Gibbs  went  into  the  bar-room. 

"Who's  that?"  asked  Mandell. 

"He's  a  swell,  all  right,"  said  Keenan. 

The  three,  Mandell,  Keenan  and  Jackson,  looked  at 
Mason  as  if  he  could  tell.  But  Archie  suddenly  re- 
membered. 

"He  looks  like  an  army  officer,"  he  said,  speaking 
his  thought  aloud. 

"What  do  you  know  about  army  officers,  young  fel- 
low?" demanded  Jackson.  The  others  turned,  and 
Archie  blushed.  But  he  did  not  propose  to  have  Jack- 
son put  him  down. 

"Well,"  he  said  with  spirit,  "I  know  something — I 
was  in  the  regular  army  three  years." 

"What  regiment?"  Jackson  fixed  Archie  with  his 
blue  eyes,  and  there  seemed  to  be  just  a  trace  of  con- 
cern in  their  keen,  searching  glance. 

"The  twelfth  cavalry,"  said  Archie.  "I  served  in  the 
Philippines." 

t 


THE   TURN   OF   THE   BALANCE       149 

"Oh!"  said  Jackson,  as  if  relieved,  and  he  released 
Archie  from  his  look.  Archie  felt  relieved,  too,  and 
went  on : 

''He  looks  just  like  a  colonel  in  the  English  army  I 
saw  at  Malta.  Our  transport  stopped  there." 

*'It's  Lon  McDougall,"  said  Mason  when  Archie  had 
finished.  "He's  a  big-mitt  man." 

The  others  turned  away  with  an  effect  of  lost  interest 
and  something  like  a  sneer. 

"I  suppose  there's  a  lot  o'  those  guns  out  there,"  said 
Keenan. 

"A  mob  come  in  this  afternoon,"  said  Mason; 
"they're  working  eastward  out  of  Chicago  with  the 
rag. 

"Well,  let's  make  a  get-away,"  said  Keenan,  unable 
to  conceal  a  yegg  man's  natural  contempt  of  the  guns. 

They  all  got  up,  Archie  with  them,  and  went  out.  In 
the  bar-room  five  men  were  standing;  they  were  all 
men  of  slight  figure,  dressed  well  and  becomingly,  and 
with  a  certain  alert,  sharp  manner.  They  cast  quick, 
shifty  glances  at  the  men  who  came  out  of  the  back 
room,  but  there  was  no  recognition  between  them. 
These  men,  as  Mason  had  said,  were  all  pickpockets; 
they  had  come  to  town  that  afternoon,  and  naturally 
repaired  at  once  to  Gibbs's.  They  had  come  in  advance 
of  a  circus  that  was  to  be  in  the  city  two  days  later, 
and  were  happy  in  the  hope  of  being  able  to  work 
under  protection.  They  knew  Cleary  as  a  chief  of 
police  with  whom  an  arrangement  could  be  made,  and 
McDougall,  who  had  come  in  to  work  on  circus  day 
himself,  had  kindly  agreed  to  secure  them  this  protec- 
tion. At  that  moment,  indeed,  McDougall  was  whis- 


150   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

pering  with  Gibbs  at  the  end  of  the  bar;  they  were 
discussing  the  "fixing"  of  Cleary. 

The  pickpockets  had  been  talking  rather  excitedly. 
They  were  glad  at  the  prospect  of  the  circus,  and,  in 
common  with  the  rest  of  humanity,  they  were  glad 
that  spring  had  come,  partly  from  a  natural  human 
love  of  this  time  of  joy  and  hope,  partly  because  the 
spring  was  the  beginning  of  the  busy  season.  They 
could  do  more  in  summer,  when  people  were  stirring 
about,  just  as  the  yegg  men  could  do  more  in  winter, 
when  the  nights  were  long  and  windows  were  closed 
and  people  kept  indoors.  But  at  the  appearance  of 
Mason  and  his  friends,  one  of  the  pickpockets  gave  the 
thieves*  cough,  and  they  were  silent.  McDougall 
glanced  about,  then  resumed  his  low  talk  with  Gibbs. 

"Give  us  a  little  drink,  Kate,"  said  Jackson,  who 
seemed  to  have  money.  As  they  stood  there  pouring 
out  their  whisky,  a  little  girl  with  a  tray  of  flowers  en- 
tered the  saloon,  and  the  pickpockets  instantly  bought 
all  her  carnations  and  adorned  themselves.  And  then 
a  man  entered,  a  small  man,  with  a  wry,  comical  face 
and  a  twisted,  deformed  figure;  his  left  hand  was 
curled  up  as  if  he  had  been  paralyzed  on  that  side  from 
his  youth.  But  once  behind  the  big  walnut  screen  which 
shut  off  the  view  from  the  street,  he  straightened  sud- 
denly and  became  as  well  formed  as  any  one.  His 
comedian's  face  broke  into  a  smile,  and  he  greeted 
every  one  there  familiarly;  he  knew  them  all — Gibbs 
and  McDougall,  the  pickpockets,  and  the  yegg  men, 
and  he  burst  into  loud  congratulations  when  he  saw 
Jackson. 

"Well,  Curly,"  he  said,  "you  gave  that  geezer  all 
that  was  coming  to  him !  You — " 


THE  TURN   OF  THE   BALANCE      151 

"Cheese  it,  Jimmy,"  said  Jackson.  "I  don't  want  to 
hear  any  more  about  that." 

Jackson  spoke  with  such  authority  that  the  Httle 
fellow  stepped  back,  the  smile  that  was  on  his  lips 
faded  suddenly,  and  he  joined  the  pickpockets.  The 
little  fellow  was  a  grubber;  he  could  throw  his  body 
instantly  into  innumerable  hideous  shapes  of  deform- 
ity ;  he  had  not  the  courage  to  be  a  thief,  was  afraid  to 
sleep  in  a  barn,  and  so  had  become  a  beggar. 

As  Mason  bade  Gibbs  good  night  and  went  out  he 
was  laughing,  and  Archie  had  not  often  seen  him  laugh. 
On  the  way  down  the  street  he  told  stories  of  Jimmy's 
abilities  as  a  beggar,  and  they  all  laughed,  all  save 
Jackson,  who  was  gloomy  and  morose  and  walked 
along  shrouded  in  a  kind  of  gloom  that  impressed 
Archie  powerfully. 

And  now  new  days  dawned  for  Archie — days  of 
association  with  Mason,  Jackson,  Keenan  and  Mandell. 
The  Market  Place  gang  had  no  standing  among  pro- 
fessional criminals,  though  it  had  furnished  recruits, 
and  now  Archie  became  a  recruit,  and  soon  approved 
himself.  It  was  not  long  until  he  could  speak  their 
language ;  he  called  a  safe  a  "peter"  and  nitroglycerin 
"soup,"  a  freight-train  was  a  "John  O'Brien"  ;  he  spoke 
of  a  man  convicted  as  a  "fall  man",  conveying  thus 
subtly  a  sense  of  vicarious  sacrifice;  he  called  police- 
men "bulls",  and  jails  "pogeys" ;  the  penitentiary  where 
all  these  men  had  been  was  the  "stir",  and  the  little 
packages  of  buttered  bread  and  pie  that  were  handed 
out  to  them  from  kitchen  doors  were  "lumps".  And  he 
learned  the  distinctions  between  the  classes  of  men  who 
defy  society  and  its  laws ;  he  knew  what  gay  cats  were, 
and  guns  and  dips,  lifters,  moll-buzzers,  hoisters,  tools. 


152   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

scratchers,  stalls,  damper-getters,  housemen,  gopher- 
men,  peter-men,  lush-touchers,  super-twisters,  penny- 
weighters, and  so  forth.  And  after  that  he  was  seen  at 
home  but  seldom;  his  absences  grew  long  and  mys- 
terious. 


XVIII 

Elizabeth  did  not  go  often  to  the  Country  Club,  and 
almost  never  for  any  pleasure  she  herself  could  find; 
now  and  then  she  went  with  her  father,  in  order  to  lure 
him  out  of  doors ;  but  to-day  she  had  come  with  Dick, 
who  wanted  some  fitting  destination  for  his  new  tour- 
ing car.  She  was  finding  on  a  deserted  end  of  the 
veranda  a  relief  from  the  summer  heat  that  for  a  week 
had  smothered  the  city.  A  breeze  was  blowing  off  the 
river,  and  she  lay  back  languidly  in  her  wicker  chair 
and  let  it  play  upon  her  brow.  In  her  lap  lay  an  open 
book,  but  she  was  not  reading  it  nor  meditating  on  it ; 
she  held  it  in  readiness  to  ward  off  interruption;  her 
reputation  as  a  reader  of  books,  while  it  made  her  for- 
midable to  many  and  gave  her  an  unpopularity  that  was 
more  and  more  grieving  her  mother,  had  its  compensa- 
tions— ^people  would  not  often  intrude  upon  a  book. 
She  looked  off  across  the  river.  On  its  smooth  surface 
tiny  sail-boats  were  moving ;  on  the  opposite  bank  there 
was  the  picturesque  windmill  of  a  farm-house,  white 
against  the  bright  green.  The  slender  young  oak  trees 
were  rustling  in  the  wind ;  the  links  were  dotted  with 
players  in  white,  and  the  distant  flags  and  fluttering 
guidons  that  marked  hidden  putting  greens.  Then  sud- 
denly Marriott  was  before  her.  He  had  come  in  from 
the  links,  and  he  stood  now  bareheaded,  glowing  from 
his  exercise,  folding  his  arms  on  the  veranda  rail.  His 
forearms  were  blazing  red  from  their  first  burning  of 

153 


154   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

the  season,  and  his  nose  was  burned  red,  giving  him 
a  merry  look  that  made  Ehzabeth  smile. 

"My !  but  you're  burned !"  she  exclaimed 

*'Am  I  ?"  said  Marriott,  pleased. 

"Yes — like  a  mower,"  she  added,  remembering  some 
men  working  in  a  field  that  had  fled  past  them  as  they 
came  out  in  the  automobile.  She  remembered  she  had 
fancied  the  men  burned  brown  as  golfers,  and  she  had 
some  half-formed  notion  of  a  sentence  she  might  turn 
at  the  expense  of  a  certain  literary  school  that  viewed 
life  thus  upside  down.  She  might  have  gone  on  then 
and  talked,  it  over  with  Marriott,  but  her  brain  was  too 
tired;  she  could  moralize  just  then  no  further  than 
to  say : 

"You  don't  deserve  to  be  burned  as  a  mower — your 
work  isn't  as  hard." 

"No,"  said  Marriott,  "it  isn't  work  at  all — it's  exer- 
cise ;  it's  a  substitute  for  the  work  I  should  be  doing." 
A  look  of  disgust  came  to  his  face. 

She  did  not  wish  then  to  talk  seriously ;  she  was  try- 
ing to  forget  problems,  and  she  and  Marriott  were  al- 
ways discussing  problems. 

"It's  absurd,"  Marriott  was  saying.  "I  do  this  to  get 
the  exercise  I  ought  to  get  by  working,  by  producing 
something — ^the  exercise  is  the  end,  not  an  incident  of 
the  means.  You  don't  see  any  of  these  farmers  around 
here  playing  golf.  They're  too  tired — " 

"Gordon,"  said  Elizabeth,  "I'm  going  away." 

"Where  to  ?"  he  asked,  looking  up  suddenly. 

"To  Europe,"  she  said. 

"Europe !  Why,  when  ?  You  must  have  decided  hur- 
riedly." 

"Yes,  the  other  night  after  I  came  home  from  Mr. 


THE  TURN   OF  THE  BALANCE      155 

Parrish's — we  decided  rather  quickly — or  papa  decided 
for  us." 

^Well!"  Marriott  exclaimed  again.  "That's  fine!'' 

He  looked  away  toward  the  first  tee,  where  his 
caddie  was  waiting  for  him.  He  beckoned,  and  the  boy 
came  with  his  bag. 

"Tell  Mr.  Phillips  I'll  not  play  any  more — I'll  see 
him  later." 

The  caddie  took  up  the  bag  and  went  lazily  away, 
stopping  to  take  several  practice  swings  with  one  of 
Marriott's  drivers.  The  boy  was  always  swinging  this 
club  in  the  hope  that  Marriott  would  give  it  to  him. 

Marriott  placed  his  hands  on  the  rail,  sprang  over  it, 
and  drew  up  a  chair. 

"Well,  this  is  sudden,"  he  said,  "but  it's  fine  for  you." 
He  took  out  a  cigarette.  "How  did  it  happen?" 

"Do  you  want  the  real  reason  ?"  she  asked. 

"Of  course ;  I've  a  passion  for  the  real." 

"I'm  going  in  order  to  get  away." 

Marriott  was  sheltering  in  his  palms  a  match  for  his 
cigarette.  He  looked  up  suddenly,  the  cigarette  still 
between  his  lips. 

"Away  from  what  ?" 

"Oh,  from — everything  !'*  She  waved  her  hands  de- 
spairingly.   Marriott  did  not  understand. 

"That's  it,"  she  said,  looking  him  In  the  eyes.  He 
saw  that  she  was  very  serious.  He  lighted  his  cigar- 
ette, and  flung  away  the  match  that  was  just  beginning 
to  burn  his  fingers. 

"I'm  going  to  run  away;  I'm  going  to  forget  for  3 
whole  summer.  I'm  going  to  have  a  good  time.  When 
I  come  back  in  the  fall  I'm  going  to  the  Charity  Bureau 
and  do  some  work^  but  until  then — " 


156   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

"Who's  going  with  you?"  asked  Marriott.  He  had 
thought  of  other  things  to  say,  but  decided  against 
them. 

"Mama." 

"And  your  father?" 

"Oh,  he  can't  go.    He  and  Dick  will  stay  at  home." 

"Then  you  won't  shut  up  the  house  ?" 

"No,  we'll  let  the  maids  go,  but  we've  got  Gusta 
Koerner  to  come  in  every  day  and  look  after  things. 
I'm  glad  for  her  sake — and  ours.   We  can  trust  her." 

"I  should  think  Dick  would  want  to  go." 

"No,  he  has  this  new  automobile  now,  and  he  says, 
too,  that  he  can't  leave  the  bank."  She  smiled  as  she 
thought  of  the  seriousness  with  which  Dick  was  re- 
garding his  new  duties. 

"Then  you'll  not  go  to  Mackinac  ?" 

"No,  we'll  close  the  cottage  this  summer.  Papa 
doesn't  want  to  go  there  without  us,  and — " 

"But  Dick  will  miss  his  yacht." 

"Oh,  the  yacht  has  been  wholly  superseded  in  his  af- 
fections by  the  auto." 

"Well,"  said  Marriott,  "I'll  not  go  north  myself  then. 
I  had  thought  of  going  up  and  hanging  around,  but 
now — " 

She  looked  to  see  if  he  were  in  earnest. 

"Really,  I'm  not  as  excited  over  the  prospect  of  go- 
ing to  Europe  as  I  should  be,"  said  Elizabeth  with  a 
little  regret  in  her  tone.  "I  haven't  been  in  Europe 
since  I  graduated,  and  I've  been  looking  forward  to  go- 
ing again — " 

"Oh,  you'll  have  a  great  time,"  Marriott  interrupted. 

She  leaned  back  and  Marriott  eyed  her  narrowly; 
he  saw  that  her  look  was  weary. 


THE  TURN   of:  THE  BALANCE      157; 

"Well,  you  need  a  rest.  It  was  such  a  long,  hard 
winter." 

Elizabeth  did  not  reply.  She  looked  away  across  the 
river  and  Marriott  followed  her  gaze;  the  sky  in  the 
west  was  darkening,  the  afternoon  had  grown  sultry. 

"Gordon,"  she  said  presently,  "I  want  you  to  do 
something  for  me." 

His  heart  leaped  a  little  at  her  words. 

"Anything  you  say,"  he  answered. 

"Won't  you" — she  hesitated  a  moment — "won't  you 
look  after  Dick  a  little  this  summer?  Just  keep  an  eye 
on  him,  don't  you  know  ?" 

Marriott  laughed,  and  then  he  grew  sober.  He  re- 
alized that  he,  perhaps,  understood  the  seriousness  that 
was  behind  her  request  better  than  she  did,  but  he  said 
nothing,  for  it  was  all  so  difficult. 

"Oh,  he  doesn^t  need  any  watching,"  he  said,  by  way 
of  reassuring  her. 

"You  will  understand  me,  I'm  sure."  She  turned  her 
gray  eyes  on  him.  "I  think  it  is  a  critical  time  with 
him.  I  don't  know  what  he  does — I  don't  want  to 
know ;  I  don't  mean  that  you  are  to  pry  about,  or  do 
anything  surreptitious,  or  anything  of  that  sort.  You 
know,  of  course ;  don't  you  ?" 

"Why,  certainly,"  he  said. 

"But  I  have  felt — ^you  see,"  she  scarcely  knew  how  to 
go  about  it;  "I  have  an  idea  that  if  he  could  have  a 
certain  kind  of  influence  in  his  life,  something  whole- 
some— I  think  you  could  supply  that." 

Marriott  was  moved  by  her  confidence;  he  felt  a 
great  affection  for  her  in  that  instant. 

"It's  good  in  you,  Elizabeth,"  he  said,  and  he  lin- 
gered an  instant  in  pronouncing  the  syllables  of  her 


158   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

name,  "but  you  really  overestimate.  Dick's  all  right, 
but  he's  young.  I'm  not  old,  to  be  sure ;  but  he'd  think 
me  old.'' 

"I  can  see  that  would  be  in  the  way,"  she  frankly  ad- 
mitted. "I  don't  know  just  how  it  could  be  done;  per- 
haps it  can't  be  done  at  all." 

"And  then,  besides  all  that,"  Marriott  went  on,  "I 
don't  know  of  any  good  I  could  do  him.  I  don't  know 
that  there  is  anything  he  really  needs  more  than  we  all 
need." 

"Oh,  yes  there  is,"  she  insisted.  "And  there  is  much 
you  could  give  him.    Perhaps  it  would  bore  you — "        , 

He  protested. 

"Oh,  I  know !"  she  said  determinedly.  "We  can  be 
frank  with  each  other,  Gordon.  Dick  is  a  man  only  in 
size  and  the  clothes  he  wears ;  he's  still  a  child — a  good, 
kind-hearted,  affectionate,  thoughtless  child.  The 
whole  thing  perplexes  me  and  it  has  perplexed  papa — 
you  might  as  well  know  that.  I  have  tried,  and  I  can 
do  nothing.  He  doesn't  care  for  books,  and  somehow 
when  I  prescribe  books  and  they  fail,  or  are  not  accept- 
ed, I'm  at  the  end  of  my  resources.  I  have  been  trying 
to  think  it  all  out,  but  I  can't.  I  know  that  something 
is  wrong,  but  I  can't  tell  you  what  it  is.  I  only  know 
that  I  feel  it,  and  that  it  troubles  me  and  worries  me — 
and  that  I  am  tired."  Then,  as  if  he  might  misunder- 
stand, she  went  on  with  an  air  of  haste :  "I  don't  mean 
necessarily  anything  wrong  in  Dick  himself,  but  some- 
thing wrong  in — oh,  I  don't  know  what  I  mean !" 

She  lifted  her  hand  in  a  little  gesture  of  despair. 

"I  feel  somehow  that  the  poor  boy  has  had  no  chance 
in  the  world — though  he  has  had  every  advantage  and 
opportunity."    Her  f^ce  lighted  up  instantly  with  a 


THE   TURN    OF   THE   BALANCE       159 

kind  of  pleasure.  "That's  it!"  she  exclaimed.  "You 
see" — it  was  all  clear  to  her  just  then,  or  would  be  if 
she  could  put  the  thought  into  words  before  she  lost  it 
— "there  is  nothing  for  him  to  do ;  there  is  no  work  for  j 
him,  no  necessity  for  his  working  at  all.  This  new  -* 
place  he  has  in  the  Trust  Company — he  seems  happy 
and  important  in  it  just  now,  but  after  all  it  doesn't 
seem  to  me  real ;  he  isn't  actually  needed  there ;  he  got 
the  place  just  because  Mr.  Hunter  is  a  friend  of  pa- 
pa." The  thought  that  for  an  instant  had  seemed  on 
the  point  of  being  posited  was  nebulous  again.  "Don't 
you  understand  ?"  she  said,  turning  to  him  for  help. 

"I  think  I  do,"  said  Marriott.  His  brows  were  con- 
tracted and  he  was  trying  to  grasp  her  meaning. 

"It's  hard  to  express,"  Elizabeth  went  on.  "I  think 
I  mean  that  Dick  would  be  a  great  deal  better  off  if  he 
did  not  have  a — rich  father."  She  hesitated  before  say- 
ing it,  a  little  embarrassed.  "If  he  had  to  work,  if  he 
had  his  own  way  to  make  in  the  world — " 

"It  is  generally  considered  a  great  blessing  to  have  a 
rich  father,"  said  Marriott. 

':  "Yes,"  said  Elizabeth,  "it  is.  I've  heard  that  very 
word  used — in  church,  too.  But  with  Dick" — she  went 
back  to  the  personal  aspect  of  the  question,  which 
seemed  easier — "what  is  his  life  ?  Last  summer,  up  at 
the  island,  it  was  the  yacht — with  a  hired  skipper  to  do 
the  real  work.  This  summer  it's  the  touring-car;  it's 
always  some  sensation,  something  physical,  something 
to  kill  time  with — and  what  kind  of  conception  of  life 
is  that?" 

She  turned  and  looke(i  at  him  witK  a  little  arch  of 
triumph  in  her  brows,  at  having  attained  this  expres- 
sion of  her  thought, 


i6o   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

"We  all  have  a  conception  of  life  that  is  more  or  less 
confused,"  Marriott  generalized.  "That  is,  when  we 
have  any  conception  at  all/' 

"Of  course,"  said  Elizabeth,  "I  presume  Dick's  con- 
ception is  as  good  as  mine ;  and  that  his  life  is  quite  as 
useful.  My  life  has  been  every  bit  as  objective — I  have 
a  round  of  little  duties — teas  and  balls  and  parties,  and 
all  that  sort  of  thing,  of  course.  I've  been  sheltered, 
like  all  girls  of  my  class ;  but  poor  Dick — ^he's  exposed, 
that  is  the  difference." 

She  was  silent  for  a  while.  Marriott  had  not  known 
before  how  deep  her  thought  had  gone. 

"I'm  utterly  useless  in  the  world,"  she  went  on,  "and 
I'm  sick  of  it !  Sick  of  it !"  She  had  grown  vehement, 
and  her  little  fists  clenched  in  her  lap,  until  the 
knuckles  showed  white. 

"Do  you  know  what  I've  a  notion  of  doing?"  she 
said. 

"No;  what?" 

"I've  a  notion  to  go  and  work  in  a  factory,  say  half 
a  day,  and  give  some  poor  girl  a  half -holiday." 

"But  you'd  take  her  wages  from  her,"  said  Marriott. 

"Oh,  I'd  give  her  the  wages." 

Marriott  shook  his  head  slowly,  doubtingly. 

"I  know  it's  impractical,"  Elizabeth  went  on.  "Of 
course,  I'd  never  do  it.  Why,  people  would  think  I'd 
gone  crazy !    Imagine  what  mama  would  say !" 

She  smiled  at  the  absurdity. 

"No,"  she  said,  "I'll  have  to  go  on,  and  lead  my  idle, 
useless  life.  That's  what  it  is,  Gordon."  He  saw  the 
latent  fires  of  indignation  and  protest  leap  into  her  eyes. 
"It's  this  life — this  horrible,  false,  insane  life !  That's 
what  it  is !    The  poor  boy  is  beside  himself  with  it,  and 


THE   TURN   OF   THE   BALANCE       i6i 

he  doesn't  know  it.  There  is  no  place  for  him,  nothing 
for  him  to  do ;  it's  the  logic  of  events." 

He  was  surprised  to  see  such  penetration  in  her. 

"I've  been  thinking  it  out,"  she  hurried  to  explain. 
"I've  suffered  from  it  myself.  I've  felt  it  for  a  long 
time,  without  understanding  it,  and  I  don't  understand 
it  very  well  now,  but  I'm  beginning  to.  Of  what  use 
am  I  in  the  world?  Not  a  bit — ^there  isn't  a  single 
thing  I  can  do.  All  this  whole  winter  I've  been  going 
about  to  a  lot  of  useless  affairs,  meeting  and  chattering 
with  a  lot  of  people  who  have  no  real  life  at  all — who 
are  of  no  more  use  in  the  world  than  I.  I'm  wearing 
myself  out  at  it — and  here  I  am,  glad  that  the  long, 
necessary  waste  of  time  is  over — tired  and  sick,  of  this 
— this — sofa-pillow  existence !"  She  thumped  a  silken 
pillow  that  lay  on  a  long  wicker  divan  beside  her, 
thumped  it  viciously  and  with  a  hatred. 

"Sometimes  I  feel  that  I'd  like  to  leave  the  town  and 
never  see  anybody  in  it  again!"  Elizabeth  exclaimed. 
"Don't  you?" 

"Yes— but— " 

"But  what?" 

"But  is  there  any  place  where  we  could  escape  it  all  ?" 

"There  must  be  some  place — some  place  where  we 
know  no  one,  so  that  no  one's  cares  could  be  our  cares, 
where  we  could  be  mere  disinterested  spectators  and  sit 
aloof,  and  observe  life,  and  not  feel  that  it  was  any  con- 
cern of  ours  at  all.  That's  what  I  want.  I'd  like  to  es- 
cape this  horrible  ennui." 

"Well,  the  summer's  here  and  we  can  have  our  vaca- 
tions. Of  course,"  he  added  whimsically,  "the  Koem- 
ers  will  have  no  vacation." 

"Gordon,  don't  you  ever  dare  to  mention  the  Koem- 
ers  again !" 


XIX 


A  few  days  later  Eades  and  Marriott  stood  on  a  step 
at  the  Union  Station,  and  watched  the  majestic  Limited 
pull  out  for  the  east.  The  white-haired  engineer  in  his 
faded  blue  jumper  looked  calmly  down  from  the  high 
window  of  his  cab,  the  black  porters  grinned  in  the 
vestibule,  the  elderly  conductor  carrying  his  responsi- 
bilities seriously  and  unaffectedly,  swung  gracefully 
aboard,  his  watch  in  his  hand,  and  there,  on  the  ob- 
servation platform,  stood  Elizabeth,  very  pretty  in  her 
gray  gown  and  the  little  hat  with  the  violets,  Eades's 
flowers  in  one  hand,  Marriott's  book  in  the  other,  wav- 
ing her  adieux.  They  watched  her  out  of  sight,  and 
then  Ward,  standing  beside  them,  sighed  heavily. 

"Well,"  he  said,  **it'll  be  lonesome  now,  with  every- 
body out  of  town." 

They  waited  for  Dick,  who  alone  of  all  of  them  had 
braved  the  high  corporate  authority  at  the  gate,  and 
gone  with  the  travelers  to  their  train.  He  came,  and 
they  went  through  the  clamorous  station  to  the  street, 
where  Dick's  automobile  was  waiting,  shaking  as  if  it 
would  shake  itself  to  pieces.  They  rode  down  town  in 
solemn  silence.  Eades  and  Marriott,  indeed,  had  had 
little  to  say ;  during  the  strain  of  the  parting  moments 
with  Elizabeth  they  had  been  stiff  and  formal  with  each 
other. 

"I  hope  to  get  away  myself  next  week,"  said  Eades, 
".The  town  will  soon  be  empty." 

162 


THE   TURN   OF  THE   BALANCE       163 

The  city  day  was  drawing  to  a  close.  Forge  fires 
were  glowing  in  the  foundries  they  passed.  Through 
the  gloom  within  they  could  see  the  workmen,  stripped 
like  gunners  to  the  waist,  their  moist,  polished  skins 
glowing  in  the  fierce  glare.  They  passed  noisy  machine- 
shops  whence  machinists  glanced  out  at  them.  In  some 
of  the  factories  bevies  of  girls  were  thronging  the  win- 
dows, calling  now  and  then  to  the  workmen,  who,  for 
some  reason  earlier  released  from  toil,  were  already 
trooping  by  on  the  sidewalk.  In  the  crowded  streets 
great  patient  horses  nodded  as  they  easily  drew  the 
empty  trucks  that  had  borne  such  heavy  loads  all  day ; 
their  drivers  were  smoking  pipes,  greeting  one  another, 
and  whistling  or  singing;  one  of  them  in  the  cama- 
raderie of  toil  had  taken  on  a  load  of  workmen,  to  haul 
them  on  their  homeward  way.  The  street-cars  were 
filled  with  men  whose  faces  showed  the  grime  their 
hasty  washing  had  not  removed. 

Suddenly  whistles  blew,  then  there  was  a  strange  si- 
lence. Something  like  a  sigh  went  up  from  all  that 
quarter  of  the  town. 

The  automobile  was  tearing  through  the  tenderloin 
with  its  gaudily-painted  saloons  and  second-hand  stores 
sandwiched  between.  Old  clothes  fluttered  above  the 
sidewalk,  and  violins,  revolvers,  boxing-gloves  and  bits 
of  jewelry,  the  trash  and  rubbish  of  wasted,  feverish 
lives  showed  in  the  windows.  Fat  Jewish  women  sat 
in  the  doorways  of  pawn-shops,  their  swarthy  children 
playing  on  the  dirty  sidewalk.  In  the  swinging  green 
doors  of  saloons  stood  bartenders;  and  everywhere 
groups  of  men  and  women,  laughing,  joking,  haggling, 
scuffling  and  quarreling.  Now  and  then  girls  with 
their  tawdry  finery  tripped  down  from  upper  rooms. 


i64   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

stood  a  moment  in  the  dark,  narrow  doorways,  looked 
up  and  down  the  street,  and  then  suddenly  went  forth. 
In  some  of  the  cheap  theaters,  the  miserable  tunes  that 
never  ended,  day  or  night,  were  jingling  from  metallic 
pianos.  They  passed  on  into  the  business  district. 
Shops  were  closing,  the  tall  office  buildings,  each  a  city 
in  itself,  were  pouring  forth  their  human  contents ;  the 
sidewalks  were  thronged — everywhere  life,  swarming, 
seething  life,  spawned  out  upon  the  world. 


Book  II 


I 


All  day  long  Archie  Koerner  and  Curly  Jackson  had 
ridden  in  the  empty  box-car.  They  had  made  them- 
selves as  comfortable  as  they  could,  and  had  beguiled 
the  time  with  talk  and  stories  and  cigarettes.  Now  and 
then  they  had  fallen  asleep,  but  not  for  long,  for  their 
joints  ached  with  the  jolting  of  the  train,  and,  more 
than  all  else,  there  was  a  constant  concern  in  their 
minds  that  made  them  restless,  furtive  and  uneasy. 
The  day  was  warm,  and  toward  noon  the  sun  beat 
down,  hotter  and  hotter ;  the  car  was  stifling,  its  atmos- 
phere charged  with  the  reminiscent  odors  of  all  the 
cargoes  it  had  ever  hauled.  Long  before  daylight 
that  morning  they  had  crawled  into  the  car  as  it  stood 
on  a  siding  in  a  village  a  hundred  miles  away.  Just 
before  dawn  the  train  came,  and  they  heard  the  con- 
ductor and  brakeman  moving  about  outside ;  now  and 
then  they  caught  the  twinkle  of  their  lanterns.  Then 
the  car  was  shunted  and  jolted  back  and  forth  for  half 
an  hour ;  finally  the  train  was  made  up,  and  pulled  out 
of  the  sleeping  village  they  were  so  glad  to  get  away 
from.  With  the  coming  of  the  dawn,  they  peeped  out 
to  see  the  sun  come  up  over  the  fields.  They  watched 
the  old  miracle  in  silence  until  they  saw  a  farmer  com- 
ing across  th^  field  with  a  team.    The  farmer  stopped, 


i68   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

watched  the  train  go  by,  then  turned  and  began  to  plow 
corn. 

"Pipe  the  Hoosier,"  Curly  had  said,  the  sight  of  a 
human  being  reHeving  the  silence  imposed  by  nature  in 
her  loneliness.  "We  call  'em  suckers.  He'll  be  plow- 
ing all  day,  but  next  winter  he'll  be  sitting  by  a  fire^— 
and  we'll — we'll  be  macing  old  women  for  lumps  at  the 
back  doors." 

Archie  was  not  much  affected  by  Curly's  sarcastic 
philosophy ;  he  had  not  yet  attained  to  Curly's  point  of 
view. 

Two  days  before,  at  evening,  they  had  left  the  city 
afad  spent  the  first  half  of  the  night  on  foot,  trudging 
along  a  country  road;  then  a  freight-train  had  taken 
them  to  a  little  town  far  to  the  south,  where,  in  the 
small  hours  of  the  morning,  they  had  broken  into  a 
post-office,  blown  open  the  safe  with  nitroglycerin, 
and  taken  out  the  stamps  and  currency.  Curly  consid- 
ered the  venture  successful,  though  marred  by  one  mis- 
hap :  in  the  explosion  the  currency  had  been  shattered 
and  burned.  But  he  had  carefully  gathered  up  the 
remnants,  wrapped  them  in  a  paper,  and  stowed  them 
away  in  his  pocket  with  the  stamps.  The  next  day  they 
hid  in  a  wood.  Curly  made  a  fire,  cooked  bacon,  and 
brewed  tea  in  a  tomato  can,  and  these,  with  bread,  had 
made  a  meal  for  them.  Then  he  had  carefully  sorted 
the  stamps,  and  had  hidden  in  the  ground  all  the  five- 
and  ten-cent  stamps,  preserving  only  those  of  the  one- 
and  two-cent  denominations.  After  that  he  had  lain 
down  on  the  grass  and  slept. 

While  Curly  slept,  Archie  sat  and  examined  with  an 
expert's  loving  interest  and  the  fascination  of  a  boy  a 
new  revolver  he  had  stolen  from  a  hardware  store  in 


THE   TURN   OF   THE   BALANCE       169 

the  city  three  days  before.  Curly  at  first  had  opposed 
the  theft  of  the  revolver,  but  had  finally  consented  be- 
cause he  recognized  Archie's  need ;  Archie  had  had  no 
revolver  since  he  was  sent  to  the  workhouse.  The  one 
he  had  when  he  was  arrested  had  been  confiscated — as 
it  is  called — by  the  police,  and  given  by  Bostwick  to  a 
friend,  a  lawyer  who  had  long  wanted  a  revolver  to 
shoot  burglars  in  case  any  should  break  into  his  home. 
Curly  had  consented  to  Archie's  stealing  the  revolver, 
but  he  had  commanded  him  to  take  nothing  else,  and 
had  waited  outside  while  Archie  went  into  the  hard- 
ware store.  Archie  had  chosen  a  fine  one,  a  double- 
acting,  self-cocking  revolver  of  thirty-eight  caliber,  like 
those  carried  by  the  police.  He  had  been  childishly 
happy  in  the  possession  of  this  weapon ;  he  had  taken  it 
out  and  looked  at  it  a  hundred  times,  and  had  been 
tempted  when  they  were  alone  in  the  woods  to  take  a 
few  practice  shots,  but  when  Curly  ordered  him  not  to 
think  of  such  nonsense,  he  drew  the  cartridges,  aimed 
at  trees,  twigs,  birds,  and  snapped  the  trigger.  Every 
little  while  in  the  box-car  that  day  he  had  taken  it  out, 
looked  at  it,  caressed  it,  turned  it  over  in  his  palm,  deli- 
cately tested  its  weight,  and  called  Curly  to  admire  it 
with  him.  He  thought  much  more  of  the  revolver  than 
he  did  of  the  stamps  and  blasted  currency  they  had 
stolen,  and  Curly  had  spoken  sharply  to  him  at  last  and 
said : 

"If  you  don't  put  up  that  rod,  I'll  ditch  it  for  you." 
Archie  obeyed  Curly,  but  when  he  had  restored  the 
revolver  to  his  pocket,  he  continued  to  talk  of  it,  and 
then  of  other  weapons  be  had  owned,  and  he  told 
Curly  how  he  had  won  the  sharp-shooter's  medal  in  the 
army. 


170   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

But  finally,  in  his  weariness,  Archie  lost  interest 
even  in  his  new  revolver,  and  when  Curly  would  not  let 
him  go  to  the  door  of  the  car  and  look  out,  lest  the 
trainmen  should  see  them  and  force  them  into  an  en- 
counter, Archie  had  fallen  asleep  in  a  corner. 

It  was  a  relief  to  Curly  when  Archie  went  to  sleep, 
for  in  addition  to  his  joy  in  his  revolver,  Archie  had 
been  excited  over  their  adventure.  Curly  was  in  many 
ways  peculiar ;  he  was  inclined  to  be  secretive ;  he  fre- 
quently worked  alone,  and  his  operations  were  as  much 
a  mystery  to  his  companions  and  to  Gibbs  as  they  were 
to  the  police.  He  had  had  his  eye  on  the  little  post- 
office  at  Trenton  for  months ;  it  had  called  to  him,  as 
it  were,  to  come  and  rob  it.  It  had  advantages,  the 
building  was  old ;  an  entrance  could  be  effected  easily. 
He  had  stationed  Archie  outside  to  watch  while  he 
knocked  off  the  peter,  and  Archie  had  acquitted  himself 
to  Curly's  satisfaction.  The  affair  came  off  smoothly. 
Though  it  was  in  the  short  summer  night,  no  one  had 
been  abroad ;  they  got  away  without  molestation.  Now, 
as  they  drew  near  the  city.  Curly  felt  easy. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  Curly  saw  signs  of  the  city's 
outposts — the  side-tracks  were  multiplying  in  long 
lines  of  freight-cars.  Then  Curly  wakened  Archie,  and 
when  the  train  slowed  up,  they  dropped  from  the  car. 

It  was  good  to  feel  once  more  their  feet  on  the 
ground,  to  walk  and  stretch  their  tired,  numb  muscles, 
good  to  breathe  the  open  air  and,  more  than  all,  good  to 
see  the  city  looming  under  its  pall  of  smoke.  They 
joined  the  throngs  of  working-men;  and  they  might 
have  passed  for  working-men  themselves,  for  Curly 
wore  overalls,  as  he  always  did  on  his  expeditions,  and 
they  were  both  so  black  from  the  smoke  and  cinders  of 


THE   TURN   OF   THE   BALANCE       171 

their  journey,  that  one  might  easily  have  mistaken  their 
grime  for  that  of  honest  toil. 

They  came  to  the  river,  pressed  up  the  long  approach 
to  its  noble  bridge,  and  submerged  themselves  in  the 
stream  of  Ufe  that  flowed  across  it,  the  stream  that  was 
made  up  of  all  sorts  of  people — ^working-men,  clerks, 
artisans,  shop-girls,  children,  men  and  women,  the  old 
and  the  yoimg,  each  individual  with  his  burden  or  his 
care  or  his  secret  guilt,  his  happiness,  his  hope,  his 
comedy  or  his  tragedy,  losing  himself  in  the  mass, 
merging  his  identity  in  the  crowd,  doing  his  part  to 
make  the  great  epic  of  life  that  flowed  across  the  bridge 
as  the  great  river  flowed  under  it — the  stream  in  which 
no  one  could  tell  the  good  from  the  bad,  or  even  wish 
thus  to  separate  them,  in  which  no  one  could  tell  Archie 
or  Curly  from  the  teacher  of  a  class  in  a  Sunday-school. 
Here  on  the  bridge  man's  little  distinctions  were  lost 
and  people  were  people  merely,  bound  together  by  the 
common  possession  of  good  and  bad  intentions,  of  good 
and  bad  deeds,  of  frailties,  errors,  sorrows,  sufferings 
and  mistakes,  of  fears  and  doubts,  of  despairs,  of  hopes 
and  triumphs  and  heroisms  and  victories  and  boundless 
dreams. 

Beside  them  rumbled  a  long  procession  of  trucks  and 
wagons  and  carriages,  street-cars  moved  in  yellow  pro- 
cession, ringing  their  cautionary  gongs ;  the  draw  in  the 
middle  of  the  bridge  vibrated  under  the  tread  of  all 
those  marching  feet ;  its  three  red  lights  were  already 
burning  overhead.  Far  below,  the  river,  growing  dark, 
rolled  out  to  the  lake ;  close  to  its  edge  on  the  farther 
shore  could  be  descried,  after  long  searching  of  the 
eye,  the  puffs  of  white  smoke  from  crawling  trains; 
vessels  could  be  picked  out,  tugs  and  smaller  craft. 


172   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

great  propellers  that  bore  coal  and  ore  and  lumber  up 
and  down  the  lakes ;  here  and  there  a  white  passenger- 
steamer,  but  all  diminutive  in  the  long  perspective. 
Above  them  the  freight-depots  squatted;  above  these 
elevators  lifted  themselves,  and  then,  as  if  on  top  of 
them,  the  great  buildings  of  the  city  heaved  themselves 
as  by  some  titanic  convulsive  effort  in  a  lofty  pile,  sur^ 
mounted  by  the  high  office  buildings  in  the  center, 
with  here  and  there  towers  and  spires  striking  upward 
from  the  jagged  sky-line.  All  this  pile  was  in  a  neu- 
tral shade  of  gray, — lines,  details,  distinctions,  all  were 
lost ;  these  huge  monuments  of  man's  vanity,  or  greed, 
or  ambition,  these  expressions  of  his  notions  of  utility 
or  of  beauty,  were  heaped  against  a  smoky  sky,  from 
which  the  light  was  beginning  to  fade.  Somewhere, 
hidden  far  down  in  this  mammoth  pile,  among  all  the 
myriads  of  people  that  swarmed  and  lost  themselves 
below  it,  were  Gusta  and  Dick  Ward,  old  man  Koerner 
and  Marriott,  Modderwell  and  Banner,  Bostwick  and 
Parrish,  and  Danny  Gibbs,  and  Mason,  and  Eades,  but 
they  were  lost  in  the  mass  of  human  beings — the 
preachers. and  thieves,  the  doctors  and  judges,  and  al- 
dermen, and  merchants,  and  working-men,  and  social 
leaders,  and  prostitutes — who  went  to  make  up  the 
swarm  of  people  that  crawled  under  and  through  this 
pile  of  iron  and  stone,  thinking  somehow  that  the  dis- 
tinctions and  the  grades  they  had  fashioned  in  their  lit- 
tle minds  made  them  something  more  or  something  less 
than  what  they  really  were. 


II 


And  yet,  after  having  crossed  the  bridge  in  the  si- 
lence that  was  the  mysterious  effect  of  the  descent  of 
evening  over  the  city,  after  having  been  gathered  back 
again  for  a  few  moments  into  human  relations  with 
their  fellow  mortals,  Archie  and  Curly  became  thieves 
again.  This  change  in  them  occurred  when  they  saw 
two  poUcemen  standing  at  the  corner  of  High  Street, 
where  the  crowd  from  the  bridge,  having  climbed  the 
slope  of  River  Street,  began  to  flow  in  diverging  lines 
this  way  and  that.  The  change  was  the  more  marked 
in  Archie,  for  at  sight  of  the  policemen  he  stopped 
suddenly.  ' 

*'Look !"  he  whispered. 

"Come  on !"  commanded  Curly,  and  Archie  fell  into 
step.  "You  never  want  to  halt  that  way ;  it  don't  make 
any  difference  with  harness  bulls,  but  if  a  fly  dick  was 
around,  it  might  put  him  hip." 

It  was  a  relief  to  Archie  when  at  last  they  turned 
«ito  Danny  Gibbs's ;  the  strange  shrinking  sensation  he 
had  felt  in  the  small  of  his  back,  the  impulse  to  turn 
around,  the  starting  of  his  heart  at  each  footfall  behind 
him,  now  disappeared.  It  was  quiet  at  Gibbs's;  the 
place  was  in  perfect  order ;  in  the  window  by  the  door, 
under  the  bill  which  pictured  two  pugilists,  the  big  cat 
he  had  seen  now  and  then  slinking  about  the  place  was 
curled  in  sleep ;  and  two  little  kittens  were  playing  near 
her.    At  one  of  the  tables,  his  head  bowed  in  his  hands, 

173 


174   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

was  the  wreck  of  a  man  Archie  had  so  often  seen  in 
that  same  attitude  and  in  that  same  place — the  tahle  in- 
deed seemed  to  be  used  for  no  other  purpose.  Gibbs 
himself  was  there,  in  shirt-sleeves,  leaning  over  the 
evening  paper  he  had  spread  before  him  on  his  bar. 
He  was  freshly  shaven,  and  was  reading  his  paper  and 
smoking  his  cigar  in  the  peace  that  had  settled  on  his 
establishment;  his  shirt  was  fresh  and  clean;  the 
starch  was  scarcely  broken  in  its  stiff  sleeves,  and 
Archie  was  fascinated  by  the  tiny  red  figures  of  horse- 
shoes and  stirrups  and  jockey  caps  that  dotted  it;  he 
had  a  desire  to  possess,  some  day,  just  such  a  shirt 
himself.  At  the  approaching  step  of  the  two  men, 
Gibbs  looked  up  suddenly,  and  the  light  flashed  blue 
from  the  diamond  in  the  bosom  of  his  shirt.  Curly 
jerked  his  head  toward  the  back  room.  Gibbs  looked 
at  Curly  an  instant  and  then  at  Archie,  a  question  in  his 
glance. 

"Sure,''  said  Curly ;  "he's  in."  Then  Gibbs  carefully 
and  deliberately  folded  his  paper,  stuck  it  in  one  of  the 
brackets  of  his  bar,  and  went  with  the  two  men  into 
the  back  room.  There  he  stood  beside  the  table,  his 
hands  thrust  into  his  pockets,  his  cigar  rolling  in  the 
corner  of  his  mouth,  his  head  tilted  back  a  little.  Archie 
was  tingling  with  interest  and  expectation. 
'     "Well,"  said  Gibbs,  in  an  introductory  way. 

Curly  was  unbuttoning  his  waistcoat ;  in  a  moment 
he  had  drawn  from  its  inner  pocket  a  package,  un- 
wrapped it,  and  disclosed  the  sheets  of  fresh  new 
stamps,  red  and  green,  and  stiff  with  the  shining  muci- 
lage. He  counted  them  over  laboriously  and  separated 
them,  making  two  piles,  one  of  the  red  two-cent  stamps, 
another  of  the  green  one-cent  stamps,  while  Gibbs 


TME  TURN   OF  THE  BALANCE      175 

stood,  squinting  downward  at  the  table.  When  Curly 
was  done,  Gibbs  counted  the  sheets  of  postage  stamps 
himself. 

*7ust  fifty  of  each,  heh?"  he  asked  when  he  had 
done. 

"That's  right,"  said  Curly. 

"That's  right,  is  it?"  Gibbs  repeated;  a  shrewdness 
in  his  squint. 

"Yes,"  Curly  said. 

"Sixty  per  cent.,"  said  Gibbs. 

"All  right,"  said  Curly. 

"I  can't  give  more  for  the  stickers  just  now,"  Gibbs 
went  on,  as  if  the  men  were  entitled  to  some  word  of 
explanation;  "business  is  damned  bad,  and  I'm  not 
making  much  at  that." 

"That's  all  right,"  said  Curly  somewhat  impatiently, 
as  one  who  disliked  haggling. 

"That  goes  with  you,  does  it,  Dutch  ?"  Gibbs  said  to 
Archie. 

"Sure,"  said  Archie,  glancing  hastily  at  Curly, 
"whatever  he  says  goes  with  me  all  right."  And  then 
he  smiled,  his  white  teeth  showing,  his  face  ruddier, 
his  blue  eyes  sparkling  with  the  excitement  he  felt — 
smiled  at  this  new  name  Gibbs  had  suddenly  given 
him. 

Curly  had  thrust  his  hand  into  another  pocket  mean- 
while, and  he  drew  out  another  package,  done  up  in  a 
newspaper.  He  laid  this  on  the  table,  opened  it  slowly, 
and  carefully  turning  back  the  folds  of  paper,  disclosed 
the  bundle  of  charred  bank-notes.  Gibbs  began  shak- 
ing his  head  dubiously  as  soon  as  he  saw  the  contents. 

"I  can't  do  much  with  that,"  he  said.  "But  you 
leave  it  and  I'll  see." 


176   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

"Well,  now,  that's  all  right,"  said  Curly,  speaking  in 
his  high  argumentative  tone ;  *T  ain't  wolfing.  You  can 
give  us  our  bit  later." 

"All  right,"  said  Gibbs,  and  carefully  doing  up  the 
parcels,  he  took  them  and  disappeared.  In  a  few  mo- 
ments he  came  back,  counted  out  the  money  on  the  ta- 
ble— ninety  dollars — and  then  went  out  with  the  air  of 
a  man  whose  business  is  finished. 

Curly  divided  the  money,  gave  Archie  his  half,  and 
they  went  out.  The  bar-room  was  just  as  they  had 
left  it ;  the  wreck  of  a  man  still  bowed  his  head  on  his 
forearms,  the  cat  was  still  curled  about  her  kittens. 
Gibbs  had  taken  down  his  paper,  and  resumed  his 
reading. 

"I'm  going  to  get  a  bath  and  a  shave,"  Curly  said. 
He  passed  his  hand  over  his  chin,  rasping  its  palm  on 
the  stubble  of  his  beard.  Archie  was  surprised  and  a 
little  disappointed  at  the  hint  of  dismissal  he  felt  in 
Curly's  tone.  He  wished  to  continue  the  companion- 
ship, with  its  excitement,  its  interest,  its  pleasure,  above 
all  that  quality  in  it  which  sustained  him  and  kept  up 
his  spirits.  He  found  himself  just  then  in  a  curious 
state  of  mind ;  the  distinction  he  had  felt  but  a  few  mo- 
ments before  in  the  back  room  with  Gibbs,  the  impor- 
tance in  the  success  of  the  expedition,  more  than  all, 
the  feeling  that  he  had  been  admitted  to  relationships 
which  so  short  a  time  before  had  been  so  mysterious 
and  inaccessible  to  him, — all  this  was  leaving  him,  dy- 
ing out  within,  as  the  stimulus  of  spirits  dies  out  in  a 
man,  and  Archie's  Teutonic  mind  was  facing  the  dark- 
ness of  a  fit  of  despondency ;  he  felt  blue  and  unhappy ; 
he  longed  to  stay  with  Curly. 

"Look  at,  Dutch,"  Curly  was  saying;  "youVe  got  a 


THE   TURN   of:  THE  BALANCE       177 

little  of  the  cush  now — it  ain't  much,  but  it's  something. 
You  want  to  go  and  give  some  of  it  to  your  mother ; 
don't  go  and  splash  it  up  in  beer." 

It  pleased  Archie  to  have  Curly  call  him  Dutch. 
There  was  something  affectionate  in  it,  as  there  is  in 
most  nicknames — something  reassuring.  But  the  men- 
tion of  his  mother  overcame  this  sense;  it  unmanned 
him,  and  he  looked  away. 

"And  look  at,"  Curly  was  going  on,  "you'll  bit  up 
on  that  burned  darb ;  you  be  around  in  a  day  or  two." 

Curly  withdrew  into  himself  in  the  curious,  baffling 
way  he  had;  the  way  that  made  him  mysterious  and 
somewhat  superior,  and,  at  times,  brought  on  him  the 
distrust  of  his  companions,  always  morbidly  suspicious 
at  their  best.  Archie  disliked  to  step  out  of  Gibbs's 
place  into  the  street;  it  seemed  like  an  exposure.  He 
glanced  out.  The  summer  twilight  had  deepened  into 
darkness.  The  street  was  deserted  and  bare,  though 
the  cobblestones  somehow  exuded  the  heat  and  tur- 
moil of  the  day  that  had  just  passed  from  them.  Archie 
thought  for  an  instant  of  what  Curly  had  said  about 
his  mother;  he  could  see  her  as  she  would  be  sitting 
in  the  kitchen,  with  the  lamp  on  the  table ;  Gusta  would 
be  bustling  about  getting  the  supper,  the  children  mov- 
ing after  her,  clutching  at  her  skirts,  retarding  her, 
getting  in  her  way,  seeming  to  endanger  their  own  lives 
by  scalding  and  burning  and  falling  and  other  do- 
mestic accidents,  which,  though  always  impending, 
never  befell.  The  kitchen  would  be  full  of  the  pleasant 
odor  of  frying  potatoes,  and  the  coffee,  bubbling  over 
now  and  then  and  sizzling  on  the  hot  stove — Archie 
had  a  sense  of  all  these  things,  and  his  heart  yearned 
and  softened.    And  then  suddenly  he  thought  of  his 


178   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

father,  and  he  knew  that  the  conception  of  the  home 
he  had  just  had  was  the  w^ay  it  used  to  be  before  his 
father  lost  his  leg  and  all  the  ills  following  that  acci- 
dent had  come  upon  the  family;  the  house  was  no 
longer  cheerful ;  the  smell  of  boiling  coffee  was  not  in 
it  as  often  as  it  used  to  be ;  his  mother  was  depressed 
and  his  father  quarrelsome,  even  Gusta  had  changed; 
he  would  be  sure  to  encounter  that  lover  of  hers,  that 
plumber  whom  he  hated.  He  squeezed  the  roll  of  bills 
in  his  pocket;  suddenly,  too,  he  remembered  his  new 
revolver  and  pressed  it  against  his  thigh,  and  he  had 
pleasure  in  that.  He  went  out  into  the  street.  After 
all,  the  darkness  was  kind;  there  were  glaring  and 
flashing  electric  lights  along  the  street,  of  course ;  the 
cheap  restaurant  across  the  way  was  blazing,  people 
were  drifting  in  and  out,  but  they  were  not  exactly  the 
same  kind  of  people  in  appearance  that  had  thronged 
the  streets  by  day.  There  was  a  new  atmosphere — a 
more  congenial  atmosphere,  for  night  had  come,  and 
had  brought  a  change  and  a  new  race  of  people  to  the 
earth — a  race  that  lived  and  worked  by  night,  with 
whom  Archie  felt  a  kinship.  He  did  not  hate  them  as 
he  was  unconsciously  growing  to  hate  the  people  of  the 
daylight.  He  saw  a  lame  hot-tamale  man  in  white, 
hobbling  up  the  street,  painfully  carrying  his  steaming 
can ;  he  saw  cabmen  on  their  cabs  down  toward  Chero- 
kee Street ;  he  saw  two  girls,  vague,  indistinct,  sugges- 
tive, flitting  hurriedly  by  in  the  shadows ;  the  electric 
lights  were  blazing  with  a  hard  fierce  glare,  but  there 
were  shadows,  deep  and  black  and  soft.  He  started 
toward  Cherokee  Street ;  he  squeezed  the  money  in  his 
pocket ;  he  was  somehow  elated  with  the  independence 
it  gave  him.    At  the  corner  he  paused  again;  he  had 


THE   TURN    OF   THE    BALANCE       179 

no  plan,  he  was  drifting  along  physically  just  as  he  was 
morally,  following  the  line  of  least  resistance,  which 
line,  just  then,  was  marked  by  the  lights  along  Market 
Place.  He  started  across  that  way,  when  all  at  once 
a  hand  took  him  by  the  lapel  of  his  coat  and  Kouka's 
black  visage  was  before  him.  Archie  looked  at  the  de- 
tective, whose  eyes  were  piercing  him  from  beneath  the 
surly  brows  that  met  in  thick,  coarse,  bristling  hairs 
across  the  wide  bridge  of  his  nose. 

"Well,"  said  Kouka,  "so  I've  got  you  again !" 

Archie's  heart  came  to  his  throat.  A  great  rage  sud- 
denly seized  him,  a  hatred  of  Kouka,  and  of  his  black 
eyes;  he  had  a  savage  wish  to  grind  the  heel  of  his 
boot  heavily,  viciously,  remorselessly  into  that  face, 
right  there  where  the  eyebrows  met  across  the  nose — 
grinding  his  heel  deep,  feeling  the  bones  crunch  be- 
neath it.  For  some  reason  Kouka  suddenly  released 
his  hold. 

"You'd  better  duck  out  o'  here,  young  fellow," 
Kouka  was  saying.    "You  hear  ?" 

Archie  heard,  but  it  was  a  moment  before  he  could 
fully  realize  that  Kouka  knew  nothing  after  all. 

"You  hear  ?"  Kouka  repeated,  bringing  his  face  close 
to  Archie's. 

"Yes,  I  hear,"  said  Archie  sullenly,  as  it  seemed,  but 
thankfully. 

"Don't  let  me  see  you  around  any  more,  you — " 

Archie,  saved  by  some  instinct,  did  not  reply,  and  he 
did  not  wait  for  Kouka's  oath,  but  hurried  away,  and 
Kouka,  as  he  could  easily  feel,  stood  watching  him. 
He  went  on  half  a  block  and  paused  in  a  shadow.  He 
saw  Kouka  still  standing  there,  then  presently  saw  him 
turn  and  go  away. 


i8o   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

Archie  paused  in  the  shadow ;  he  thought  of  Kouka, 
remembering  all  the  detective  had  done  to  him ;  he  re- 
membered those  forty  days  in  the  workhouse;  he 
thought  of  Bostwick,  of  the  city  attorney,  of  the  whole 
town  that  seemed  to  stand  behind  him ;  the  bitterness  of 
those  days  in  the  workhouse  came  back,  and  the  force 
of  all  the  accumulated  hatred  and  vengeance  that  had 
been  spent  upon  him  was  doubled  and  quadrupled  in 
his  heart,  and  he  stood  there  with  black,  mad,  insane 
thoughts  clouding  his  reason.  Then  he  gripped  his 
roll  of  money,  he  pressed  his  new  revolver,  and  he  felt 
a  kind  of  wild,  primitive,  savage  satisfaction, — the 
same  primitive  satisfaction  that  Kouka,  and  Bostwick, 
the  city  attorney,  the  whole  police  force,  and  the  whole 
city  had  seemed  to  take  in  sending  him  to  the  work- 
house.   And  then  he  went  on  toward  the  tenderloin. 


Ill 


Gibbs,  never  sure  that  the  police  would  keep  their 
word  with  him,  rose  earlier  than  usual  the  next  morn- 
ing, ate  his  breakfast,  called  a  cab — ^he  had  an  eccentric 
fondness  for  riding  about  in  hansom-cabs — and  was 
driven  rapidly  to  the  corner  of  High  and  Franklin 
Streets,  the  busiest,  most  distracting  corner  in  the  city. 
There  the  enormous  department  store  of  James  E.  Bills 
and  Company  occupied  an  entire  building  five  stories 
high.  The  store  was  already  filled  with  shoppers, 
mostly  women,  who  crowded  about  the  counters,  on 
which  all  kinds  of  trinkets  were  huddled,  labeled  with 
cards  declaring  that  the  price  had  just  been  reduced. 
The  girls  behind  the  counters,  all  of  whom  were 
dressed  in  a  certain  extravagant  imitation  of  the  wom- 
en who  came  every  day  to  look  these  articles  over, 
were  already  tired ;  their  eyes  lay  in  dark  circles  that 
were  the  more  pronounced  because  their  cheeks  were 
covered  with  powder,  and  now  and  then  they  lifted 
their  hands,  their  highly  polished  finger-nails  gleaming, 
to  the  enormous  pompadours  in  which  they  had  ar- 
ranged their  hair.  Many  of  the  women  in  the  store, 
clerks  and  shoppers,  wore  peevish,  discontented  expres- 
sions, and  spoke  in  high  ugly  voices ;  the  noise  of  their 
haggling  filled  the  whole  room  and  added  to  the  din 
made  by  the  little  metal  money-boxes  that  whizzed  by 
on  overhead  wires,  and  increased  the  sense  of  confu- 

i8i 


i82      THE  tmN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

sion  produced  by  the  cheap  and  useless  things  which, 
With  their  untruthful  placards,  were  piled  about  every- 
where. The  air  in  the  store  was  foul  and  unwhole- 
some; here  and  there  pale  little  girls  who  carried 
bundles  in  baskets  ran  about  on  their  little  thin  legs, 
piping  out  shrill  numbers. 

Gibbs  was  wearied  the  moment  he  entered,  and  irri- 
tably waved  aside  the  sleek,  foppish  floor-walker.  The 
only  person  to  whom  he  spoke  as  he  passed  along  was 
a  private  detective  leaning  against  one  of  the  counters ; 
Gibbs  had  already  had  dealings  with  him  and  had  got 
back  for  him  articles  that  had  been  stolen  by  certain 
women  thieves  who  were  adept  in  the  art  of  shoplifting. 
Gibbs  went  straight  back  to  the  elevator  and  was  Hfted 
out  of  all  this  din  and  confusion  into  the  comparative 
quiet  of  the  second  floor,  where  the  offices  of  the  estab- 
lishment occupied  a  cramped  space  behind  thin  wooden 
partitions.  Gibbs  entered  the  offices  and  glanced  about 
at  the  clerks,  who  worked  in  silence ;  on  each  of  them 
had  been  impressed  a  subdued,  obedient  demeanor; 
they  glanced  at  Gibbs  surreptitiously.  It  was  plain 
that  all  spirit  had  been  drilled  out  of  them ;  they  were 
afraid  of  something,  and,  driven  by  their  necessities, 
they  toiled  like  machines.  Gibbs  felt  a  contempt  for 
them  as  great  as  the  contempt  he  felt  for  the  floor- 
walkers below,  a  contempt  almost  as  great  as  that  he 
had  for  Bills  himself.  A  timid  man  of  about  forty-five, 
with  a  black  beard  sprouting  out  of  the  pallor  of  his 
skin,  came  up,  and  lifted  his  brows  with  amazement 
when  Gibbs,  ignoring  him,  made  plainly  for  the  door 
that  was  lettered  :    "Mr.  Bills.'' 

"Mr.  Bills  is  engaged  just  now,"  the  man  said  in  a 
hushed  tone. 


THE  TURN   OP  THE   BALANCE      i% 

.  "Well,  tell  him  Mr.  Gibbs  is  here." 

"But  he's  engaged  just  now,  sir;  he's  dictating.*' 
The  man  leaned  forward  and  whispered  the  word  "dic- 
tating" impressively. 

But  Gibbs  kept  on  toward  the  door;  then  the  man 
blocked  his  way. 

"Tell  him  if  you  want  to,"  said  Gibbs,  "if  not,  I  will." 

It  seemed  that  Gibbs  might  walk  directly  through 
the  m.an,  who  retreated  from  him,  and,  having  no  other 
egress,  went  through  Mr.  Bills's  door.  A  moment  more 
and  he  held  it  open  for  Gibbs. 

Bills  was  sitting  at  an  enormous  desk  which  was  set 
in  perfect  order;  on  either  side  of  him  were  baskets 
containing  the  letters  he  was  methodically  answering. 
Bills's  head  showed  over  the  top  of  the  desk;  it  was 
a  round  head  covered  with  short  black  hair,  smoothly 
combed  and  shining.  His  black  side-whiskers  were 
likewise  short  and  smooth.  His  neck  was  bound  by  a 
white  collar  and  a  little  pious,  black  cravat,  and  he  wore 
black  clothes.  His  smoothly-shaven  lips  were  pursed 
in  a  self-satisfied  way ;  he  was  brisk  and  unctuous,  very 
clean  and  proper,  and  looked  as  if  he  devoutly  anoint- 
ed himself  with  oil  alter  his  bath.  In  a  word,  he  bore 
himself  as  became  a  prominent  business  man,  who,  be- 
sides his  own  large  enterprise,  managed  a  popular  Sun- 
day-school, and  gave  Sunday  afternoon  "talks"  on 
"Success,"  for  the  instruction  of  certain  young  men  of 
the  city,  too  mild  and  acquiescent  to  succeed  as  any- 
thing but  conformers. 

"Ah,  Mr.  Gibbs,"  he  said.  "You  will  excuse  me  a 
moment." 

Bills  turned  and  resumed  the  dictation  of  his  stereo- 
typed phrases  of  business.    He  dictated  several  letterS|, 


i84      iTHE  TURN   OE  THE   BALANCE 
f      '  •> 

then  dismissed  his  stenographer  and,  turning  about, 
said  with  a  smile : 

"Now,  Mr.  Gibbs." 

Gibbs  drew  his  chair  close  to  Bills's  desk,  and,  taking 
a  package  from  his  pocket,  laid  out  the  stamps. 

"One  hundred  sheets  of  twos,  fifty  of  ones,"  he  said. 

Bills  had  taken  off  his  gold  glasses  and  slowly  low- 
ered them  to  the  end  of  their  fine  gold  chain ;  he  rubbed 
the  little  red  marks  the  glasses  left  on  the  bridge  of  his 
nose,  and  in  his  manner  there  was  an  uncertainty  that 
seemed  unexpected  by  Gibbs. 

*T  was  about  to  suggest,  Mr.  Gibbs,"  said  Bills,  plac- 
ing his  fingers  tip  to  tip,  "that  you  see  our  Mr.  Wilson ; 
he  manages  the  mail-order  department,  now." 

"Not  for  mine,"  said  Gibbs  decisively.  "I've  always 
done  business  with  you.  I  don't  know  this  fellow 
Wilson." 

Bills,  choosing  to  take  it  as  a  tribute,  smiled  and  went 
on: 

"I  think  we're  fully  stocked  just  now,  but — ^how 
would  a  sixty  per  cent,  proposition  strike  you  ?" 

"No,"  said  Gibbs,  as  decisively  as  before. 

"No?"  repeated  Bills. 

"No,"  Gibbs  went  on,  "seventy-five." 

Bills  thought  a  moment,  absently  lifting  the  rustling 
sheets. 

"How  many  did  you  say  there  were  ?" 

"They  come  to  one-fifty,"  said  Gibbs ;  "count  'em.'* 

Bills  did  count  them,  and  when  he  had  done,  he  said ; 

"That  would  make  it  one-twelve-fifty  ?" 

"That's  it." 

"Very  well.  Shall  I  pass  the  amount  to  your  cred- 
it?" 


THE  TURN   OF  THE   BALANCE      185 

"No;  I'll  take  the  cash." 

"I  thought  perhaps  Mrs.  Gibbs  would  be  wanting 
some  things  in  the  summer  line,"  said  Bills. 

Gibbs  shook  his  head. 

**We  pay  cash,"  said  he. 

Bills  smiled,  got  up,  walked  briskly  with  a  little 
spring  to  each  step  and  left  the  room.  He  returned 
presently,  closed  the  door,  sat  down,  counted  the  bills 
out  on  the  leaf  of  his  desk,  laid  a  silver  half-dollar  on 
top  and  said : 

"There  you  are." 

Gibbs  counted  the  money  carefully,  rolled  it  up  delib- 
erately and  stuffed  it  into  his  trousers  pocket. 

Gibbs  had  one  more  errand  that  morning,  and  he 
drove  in  his  hansom-cab  to  the  private  bank  Amos 
Hunter  conducted  as  a  department  of  his  trust  com- 
pany. Gibbs  deposited  his  money,  and  then  went  into 
Hunter's  private  office.  Hunter  was  an  old  man,  thin 
and  spare,  with  white  hair,  and  a  gray  face.  He  sat 
with  his  chair  turned  away  from  his  desk,  which  he 
seldom  used  except  when  it  became  necessary  for  him 
to  sign  his  name,  and  then  he  did  this  according  to  the 
direction  of  a  clerk,  who  would  lay  a  paper  before  him, 
dip  a  pen  in  ink,  hand  it  to  Hunter,  and  point  to  the 
space  for  the  signature.  Hunter  was  as  economical  of 
his  energy  in  signing  his  name  as  in  everything  else; 
he  wrote  it  "A.  Hunter."  He  sat  there  every  day  with- 
out moving,  as  it  seemed,  apparently  determined  to 
eke  out  his  life  to  the  utmost.  His  coachman  drove 
him  down  town  at  ten  each  morning,  at  four  in  the 
afternoon  he  came  and  drove  him  home  again.  It  was 
only  through  the  windows  of  the  carriage  and  through 
the  windows  of  his  private  office  that  Hunter  looked 


i86   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

out  on  a  world  with  whicH  for  forty  years  he  had  never 
come  in  personal  contact.  His  inert  manner  gave  the 
impression  of  great  age  and  senility ;  but  the  eyes  un- 
der the  thick  white  brows  were  alert,  keen,  virile.  He 
was  referred  to  generally  as  "old  Amos." 

Gibbs  went  in,  a  parcel  in  his  hand. 

"Just  a  little  matter  of  some  mutilated  currency,"  he 
said. 

Old  Amos's  thin  lips  seemed  to  smile. 

"You  may  leave  it  and  we'll  be  glad  to  forward  it  to 
Washington  for  you,  Mr.  Gibbs,"  he  said,  without  mov- 
ing. 

Gibbs  laid  the  bundle  on  old  Amos's  desk,  and,  tak- 
ing up  a  bit  of  paper,  wrote  on  it  and  handed  it  to 
Hunter. 

"Have  you  a  memorandum  there?"  asked  Hunter. 
He  glanced  at  the  paper  and  wrote  on  the  slip : 

"A.  H." 

Then  he  resumed  the  attitude  that  had  scarcely  been 
altered,  laid  his  white  hands  in  his  lap  and  sat  there 
with  his  thin  habitual  smile. 

Gibbs  thanked  him  and  went  away.  His  morning's 
work  among  the  business  men  of  the  city  was  done. 


IV 


It  promised  to  be  a  quiet  evening  at  Danny  Gibbs^s. 
There  had  been  a  vicious  electrical  storm  that  after- 
noon, but  by  seven  o'clock  the  lightning  played  prettily 
in  the  east,  the  thunder  rolled  away,  the  air  cooled,  and 
the  rain  fell  peacefully.  The  storm  had  been  predicted 
to  Joe  Mason  in  the  rheumatism  that  had  bitten  his 
bones  for  two  days,  but  now  the  ache  had  ceased,  and 
the  relief  was  a  delicious  sensation  he  was  content  sim- 
ply to  realize.  He  sat  in  the  back  room,  smoking  and 
thinking,  a  letter  in  his  hand.  Gibbs's  wife  had  gone  to 
bed — she  had  been  drinking  that  day.  Old  Johnson, 
the  sot  who,  by  acting  as  porter,  paid  Gibbs  for  his 
shelter  and  the  whisky  he  drank — ^he  ate  very  little,  go- 
ing days  at  a  time  without  food — had  set  the  bar- 
room in  order  and  disappeared.  Gibbs  was  somewhere 
about,  but  all  was  still,  and  Mason  liked  it  so.  From 
time  to  time  Mason  glanced  at  the  letter.  The  letter 
was  a  fortnight  old ;  it  had  been  written  from  a  work- 
house in  a  distant  city  by  his  old  friend  Dillon,  known 
to  the  yeggs  as  Slim.  Mason  had  not  seen  Dillon  for 
a  year — not,  in  fact,  since  they  had  been  released  from 
Dannemora.  This  was  the  letter : 

Old  Pal — I  thought  I  would  fly  you  a  kite,  and  take 
chances  of  its  safe  arrival  at  your  loft.  I  was  lagged 
wrong,  but  I  am  covered  and  strong  and  the  bulls  can't 
throw  me.    I  am  only  here  for  a  whop,  and  I'll  hit  the 

187 


i88   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

road  before  the  dog  is  up.  I  have  filled  out  a  country 
jug  that  can  be  sprung  all  right.  We  can  make  a  safe 
lamas.  There  is  a  John  O'Brien  at  1 130  a.  m.,  and  a 
rattler  at  3 150.  The  shack  next  door  is  a  cold  slough, 
and  the  nearest  kip  to  the  joint  is  one  look  and  a  peep. 
There  is  a  speeder  in  the  shanty,  and  we  can  get  to  the 
main  stem  and  catch  the  rattler  and  be  in  the  main  fort 
by  daylight.  The  trick  is  easy  worth  fifty  centuries. 
Now  let  me  know,  and  make  your  mark  and  time.  I 
am  getting  this  out  through  a  broad  who  will  give  it  to 
our  fall-back,  you  know  who. 

Yours  in  durance  vile, 

Slim. 


Mason  had  not  answered  the  letter,  and  only  the  day 
before  Dillon  had  appeared,  bringing  with  him  a  youth 
called  Squeak.  And  now  this  night,  as  Mason  sat  there, 
he  did  not  like  to  think  of  Dillon.  Dillon  had  traveled 
hundreds  of  miles  by  freight-trains  to  be  with  Mason, 
to  give  him  part  in  his  enterprise ;  he  had  been  to  the 
little  town  and  examined  the  bank;  he  had  even  en- 
tered it  by  night  alone.  He  had  laid  his  plans,  and, 
like  all  his  kind,  could  not  conceive  of  their  miscarry- 
ing. He  had  estimated  the  amount  they  would  pro- 
cure; he  considered  five  thousand  dollars  a  conserv- 
ative estimate.  It  was  the  big  touch,  of  which  they 
were  always  dreaming  as  a  means  of  reformation.  But 
Mason  had  refused.  Then  Dillon  asked  Curly,  and 
Curly  refused.  Mason  gave  Dillon  no  reason  for  his 
refusal,  but  Curly  contended  that  summer  was  not  the 
time  for  such  a  big  job;  the  nights  were  short  and 
people  slept  lightly,  with  open  windows,  even  if  the 
old  stool-pigeon  was  not  up.  Dillon  had  taunted  him 
and  hinted  contemptuously  at  a  broad.    They  had  al- 


THE  TURN   OF  THE  BALANCE      189 

most  come  to  blows.  Finally  Dillon  had  left,  taking 
with  him  Mandell  and  Squeak  and  Archie — all  eager 
to  go. 

Mason  sat  there  and  thought  of  Dillon  and  his  com- 
panions. He  could  imagine  them  on  the  John  O'Brien, 
jolting  on  through  the  rain,  maybe  dropping  off  when 
the  train  stopped,  to  hide  under  some  water-tank,  or 
behind  some  freight-shed — ^he  had  done  it  all  so  many, 
many  times  himself.  Still  he  tried  not  to  think  of  Dil- 
lon, for  he  could  not  do  so  without  a  shade  of  self-re- 
proach; it  seemed  like  pigging  to  refuse  Dillon  as  he 
had ;  they  had  worked  so  long  together.  Dillon's  long, 
gaunt  figure  presented  itself  to  his  memory  as  crouch- 
ing before  some  old  rope  mold,  a  bit  of  candle  in  his 
left  hand,  getting  ready  to  pour  the  soup,  and  then 
memory  would  usually  revert  to  that  night  when  Dillon 
had  suddenly  doused  the  candle — ^but  not  before  Mason 
had  caught  the  gleam  in  his  eyes  and  the  setting  of  his 
jaw — and,  pulling  his  rod,  had  barked  suddenly  into 
the  darkness.  Then  the  flight  outside,  the  rose-colored 
flashes  from  their  revolvers  in  the  night,  the  race  down 
the  silent  street — white  snow  in  the  fields  across  the 
railroad  tracks,  and  the  bitter  cold  in  the  woods. 

He  shook  his  head  as  if  to  fling  the  memories  from 
him.  But  Dillon's  figure  came  back,  now  in  the  front 
rank  of  his  company,  marching  across  the  hideous 
prison  yard,  his  long  legs  breaking  at  the  middle  as  he 
leaned  back  in  the  lock-step.  Mason  tried  to  escape 
these  thoughts,  but  they  persisted.  He  got  a  news- 
paper, but  understood  little  of  what  he  read,  except  one 
brief  despatch,  which  told  of  a  tramp  found  cut  in  two 
beside  the  tracks,  five  hundred  dollars  sewed  in  his  coat. 
The  despatch  wondered  how  a  hobo  could  have  so 


190   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

much  money,  and  this  amused  Mason;  he  would  tell 
Gibbs,  and  they  would  have  a  laugh — their  old  laugh  at 
the  world  above  them.  Then  they  themselves  would 
wonder — wonder  which  one  of  the  boys  it  was;  it 
might  be  weeks  before  the  news  would  reach  them  in 
an  authoritative  form.  He  enjoyed  for  a  moment  his 
laugh  at  the  stupid  world,  the  world  which  could  not 
understand  them  in  the  least,  the  world  which  shud- 
dered in  its  ignorance  of  them.  Then  he  thought  of 
Dillon  again.  Dillon  had  never  refused  him ;  he  had  not 
refused  him  that  evening  in  northern  Indiana,  when  the 
sheriff  and  the  posse  of  farmers,  armed  with  pitchforks 
and  shot-guns  and  old  army  muskets,  had  brought 
them  to  bay  in  the  wheat  stubble ;  his  ammunition  had 
given  out,  but  old  Dillon,  with  only  three  cartridges 
left,  had  stood  cursing  and  covering  his  retreat.  Mason 
was  beginning  to  feel  small  about  it,  and  yet — Dillon 
did  not  understand ;  when  he  came  back  he  would  ex- 
plain it  all  to  him.  This  notion  gave  him  some  comfort, 
and  he  lighted  his  cigar,  turned  to  his  newspaper  again, 
and  listened  for  the  rain  falling  outside.  Suddenly 
there  was  a  noise,  and  Mason  started.  Was  that  old 
Dillon  crouching  there  beside  him,  his  face  gleaming 
in  the  flicker  of  the  dripping  candle  ?  He  put  his  hand 
to  his  head  in  a  kind  of  daze. 

"Je's !"  he  exclaimed.  "Fm  getting  nutty." 
He  was  troubled,  for  his  head  had  now  and  then 
gone  off  that  way  in  prison — they  called  it  stir  simple. 
Mason  sat  down  again,  but  no  longer  tried  to  read. 
He  heard  the  noise  in  the  bar-room,  the  noise  of  high 
excitement,  and  he  wondered.  His  curiosity  was  great, 
but  he  had  learned  to  control  his  curiosity.  He  could 
bear  talking,  laughmg,  cursing,  the  shuffle  of  feet,  the 


THE   TURN   OF   THE   BALANCE       191 

clink  of  glasses — some  sports  out  for  a  time,  no  doubt. 
In  a  moment  the  door  opened  and  Gibbs  appeared. 

''Where's  Kate?"  he  demanded. 

"She  went  to  bed  half  an  hour  ago,"  said  Mason. 
"Why — what's  the  excitement  ?" 

"Eddie  Dean's  here — come  on  out."  Gibbs  disap- 
peared ;  the  door  closed. 

Mason  understood ;  no  wonder  the  place  thrilled  with 
excitement.  He  had  heard  of  Eddie  Dean.  Down  into 
his  world  had  come  stories  of  this  man,  of  his  amazing 
skill  and  cleverness,  of  the  enormous  sums  he  made 
every  year — made  and  spent.  Dean  had  the  fascination 
for  Mason  that  is  born  of  mystery ;  he  had  had  Dean's 
methods  and  the  methods  of  other  big-mitt  men  de- 
scribed to  him ;  he  had  heard  long  discussions  in  sand- 
house  hang-outs  and  beside  camp-fires  in  the  woods, 
but  the  descriptions  never  described;  he  could  never 
grasp  the  details.  He  could  understand  the  common, 
ordinary  thefts ;  he  could  see  how  a  pickpocket  by  long 
practice  learned  his  art,  but  the  kind  of  work  that  Dean 
did  had  something  occult  in  it.  How  a  man  could  go 
out,  wearing  good  clothes,  and,  without  soiHng  his 
fingers,  merely  by  talking  and  playing  cards,  make  such 
sums  of  money — Mason  simply  could  not  realize  it. 
Surely  it  was  worth  while  to  have  a  look  at  him.  He 
started  out,  then  he  remembered;  he  passed  his  hand 
over  the  stubble  of  hair  that  had  been  growing 
after  the  shaving  at  the  workhouse,  and  he  picked  up 
his  low-crowned,  narrow-brimmed  felt  hat — the  kind 
worn  by  the  brakemen  he  now  and  then  wished  to  be 
taken  for — ^pulled  it  down  to  his  eyebrows,  and  went 
out. 

Eddie  Dean,  who  3tood  at  the  bar  in  the  blue  clothes 


192   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

that  perfectly  exemplified  the  fashion  of  that  summer, 
was  described  in  the  police  identification  records  as  a 
man  somewhat  above  medium  size,  and  now,  at  forty, 
he  was  beginning  to  take  on  fat.  His  face  was  heavy, 
and  despite  the  fact  that  his  nose  was  twisted  slightly 
to  one  side,  and  his  upper  lip  depressed  where  it  met 
his  nose,  the  women  whom  Dean  knew  considered  him 
handsome.  His  face  was  smooth-shaven  and  blue,  like 
an  actor^s,  from  his  heavy  beard.  His  mouth  was  large, 
and  his  lips  thin ;  he  could  close  them  and  look  serious 
and  profound;  and  when  he  smiled  and  disclosed  the 
gold  fillings  in  his  teeth,  he  seemed  youthful  and  gay. 
His  face  showed  vanity,  a  love  of  pleasure,  vulgarity, 
selfishness,  sensuality  accentuated  by  dissipation,  and 
the  black  eyes  that  were  so  sharp  and  bright  and 
penetrating  were  cruel.  Mason,  however,  could  not 
analyze ;  he  only  knew  that  he  did  not  like  this  fellow, 
and  merely  grunted  when  Gibbs  introduced  him,  and 
Dean  patronizingly  said,  without  looking  at  him : 

"Just  in  time,  my  good  fellow." 

Then  he  motioned  imperiously  to  the  bartender,  who 
took  down  another  wine-glass,  wiped  it  dexterously, 
and  set  it  out  with  an  elegant  flourish  and  filled  it. 
Mason  watched  the  golden  bubbles  spring  from  the 
hollow  stem  to  the  seething  surface.  He  did  not  care 
much  for  champagne,  but  he  lifted  his  glass  and  looked 
at  Dean,  who  was  saying : 

**Here*s  to  the  suckers — may  they  never  grow  less." 

The  others  in  the  party  laughed.  Besides  Gibbs,  who 
was  standing  outside  his  own  bar  like  a  visitor,  there 
were  Nate  Rosen,  a  gambler,  dressed  more  conspicu- 
ously than  Dean;  a  small  man  in  gray,  with  strange 
pale  eyes  fastened  always  on  Dean ;  and  a  third  man  in 


THE  TURN  OF  -f HE   BALANCE      193 

tweeds,  larger  than  either,  with  broad  shoulders,  heavy 
jaw  and  an  habitual  scowl.  Beyond  him,  apart,  with 
the  truckling  leer  of  the  parasite,  stood  a  man  in  seedy 
livery,  evidently  the  driver  of  the  carriage  that  was 
waiting  outside  in  the  rain. 

Dean's  history  was  the  monotonous  one  of  most  men 
of  his  kind.  Having  a  boy's  natural  dislike  for  school, 
he  had  run  away  from  home  and  joined  a  circus.  At 
first  he  led  the  sick  horses,  then  he  was  hired  by  one  of 
the  candy  butchers  and  finally  allowed  to  peddle  on  the 
seats;  there  he  learned  the  art  of  short  change,  and 
when  he  had  mastered  this  he  sold  tickets  from  a  little 
satchel  outside  the  tents ;  by  the  time  he  was  twenty- 
five  he  knew  most  of  the  schemes  by  which  the  foolish, 
seeking  to  get  something  for  nothing,  are  despoiled  of 
their  money.  He  was  an  adept  at  cards ;  he  knew  montc 
and  he  could  work  the  shells ;  later  he  traveled  about, 
cheating  men  by  all  kinds  of  devices,  aided  by  an  in- 
tuitive knowledge  of  human  nature.  He  could  go 
through  a  passenger  train  from  coach  to  coach  and 
pick  out  his  victims  by  their  backs.  As  he  went  through 
he  would  suddenly  lose  his  balance,  as  if  by  the  lurch- 
ing of  the  train,  and  steady  himself  by  the  arm  of  the 
seat  in  which  his  intended  victim  sat.  His  confederate, 
following  behind,  would  note  and  remember.  Later, 
he  would  return  and  invite  him  to  make  a  fourth  hand 
at  whist  or  pedro  or  some  other  game.  Dean  would  do 
the  rest.  He  went  to  all  large  gatherings — political  con- 
ventions, especially  national  conventions,  conclaves, 
celebrations,  world's  fairs,  the  opening  of  any  new  strip 
of  land  in  the  West,  the  gold-fields  of  Alaska,  and  so 
on.  He  had  roamed  all  over  the  United  States ;  he  had 
been  to  Europe,  and  Cuba,  and  Jamaica,  and  Old  Mcx- 


194   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

ico;  he  had  visited  Hawaii;  he  boasted  that  he  had 
traveled  the  whole  world  over — ''from  St.  Petersburg 
to  Cape  Breton"  was  the  v/ay  he  put  it,  and  it  im- 
pressed his  hearers  all  the  more  because  most  of  them 
had  none  but  the  most  confused  notion  of  where  either 
place  was.  He  boasted,  too,  that  United  States  sen- 
ators, cabinet  officers,  congressmen,  governors,  finan- 
ciers and  other  prominent  men  had  been  among  his 
victims,  and  many  of  these  boasts  were  justified — by 
the  facts,  at  least. 

The  atmosphere  of  the  bar-room  had  been  changed 
by  the  arrival  of  Dean.  It  lost  Its  usual  serenity  and 
quivered  with  excitement.  The  deference  shown  to 
Dean  was  marked  in  the  attitude  of  the  men  In  his 
suite;  It  was  marked,  too,  by  the  bartender's  attitude, 
and  even  In  that  of  GIbbs,  though  GIbbs  was  more 
quiet  and  self-contained,  bearing  himself,  indeed,  quite 
as  Dean's  equal.  He  did  not  look  at  Dean  often,  but 
stood  at  his  bar  with  his  head  lowered,  gazing  thought- 
fully at  the  glass  of  mineral  water  he  was  drinking, 
turning  It  round  and  round  In  his  fingers,  with  a  faint 
smile  on  his  lips.  But  no  one  could  tell  whether  the 
amusement  came  from  his  own  thoughts  or  the  little 
adventures  Dean  was  relating. 

"No,  I'm  going  out  In  the  morning,"  Dean  was  say- 
ing, the  diamond  on  his  white,  delicate  hand  flashing  as 
he  lifted  his  glass. 

"Which  way  ?"  asked  Gibbs. 

"I'm  working  eastward,"  said  Dean.  "Here!"  he 
turned  to  the  bartender,  "let's  have  another — and  get 
another  barrel  of  water  for  Dan." 

He  smiled  with  what  tolerance  he  could  find  for  a 
man  who  did  not  drink. 


THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE      195 

"How  much  of  that  stuff  do  you  lap  up  in  a  week, 
Dan?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  Gibbs  said.  He  was  not  quick 
at  repartee. 

"Well,  slush  up,  but  don't  make  yourself  sick,"  Dean 
went  on. 

The  bartender,  moving  briskly  about,  pressed  the 
cork  from  a  bottle,  poured  a  few  drops  into  Dean's 
glass,  and  then  proceeded  to  fill  the  other  glasses. 

"Well,  how's  the  graft  ?"  Gibbs  asked  presently. 

"Oh,  fairly  good,"  said  Dean.  "A  couple  of  bucks 
yesterday."  He  switched  his  leg  with  the  slender  stick 
he  carried. 

Gibbs's  eyes  lighted  with  humorous  interest  and 
pleasure. 

"They  were  coming  out  of  St.  Louis,"  Dean  went 
on,  and  then,  as  if  he  had  perhaps  given  an  exaggerated 
impression  of  the  transaction,  he  went  on  in  a  quick, 
explicatory  way :  "Oh,  it  didn't  amount  to  much — ^just 
for  the  fun  of  the  thing,  you  know.  But  say,  who  do 
you  think  I  saw  in  St.  Louis  ?" 

"Don't  know,"  said  Gibbs,  shaking  his  head. 

"Why,  old  Tom  Young." 

"No!"  exclaimed  Gibbs,  looking  up  in  genuine  in- 
terest and  surprise. 

"Sure,"  said  Dean. 

'What's  he  doing?" 

"He  made  the  big  touch,  quit  the  business,  got  a 
farm  in  Illinois,  and  settled  down  with  Lou.  The  girl's 
grown  up,  just  out  of  a  seminary,  and  the  boy's  in  col- 
lege. He  said  he'd  like  me  to  see  the  place,  but  he 
wouldn't  take  me  out  'cause  the  girl  was  home  then. 
Remember  the  old  joint  in  the  alley  ?" 


196   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

Gibbs's  eyes  kindled  with  lively  memories. 

"Remember  that  afterncxDn  Bob's  man  came  down 
for  the  brace-box?  I  can  see  Tom  now — ^he  gets  the 
box  and  says,  Tell  Bob  not  to  frisk  him/  God !  They 
sent  that  mark  through  the  alley  that  afternoon  to  a 
fare-you-well.  And  they  had  hell's  own  time  keepin' 
the  box  in  advance  of  'em — it  was  the  only  one  in  the 
alley.  Remember?" 

Gibbs  remembered,  but  that  did  not  keep  Dean  from 
relating  the  whole  story. 

"What  became  of  Steve  Harris  ?"  Dean  asked. 

"He's  out  with  the  rag,  I  guess,"  Gibbs  replied. 

"I  heard  Winnie  sold  her  place." 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Gibbs ;  "bought  a  little  home  in  the 
swell  part — quiet  street  and  all  that — and  they're  living 
there  happy  as  you  please." 

"Well,  that's  good,"  said  Dean.  "Steve  and  me  was 
with  the  John  Robinson  show  in  the  old  days.  He  was 
holdin'  a  board  for  the  monte  tickets,  and  old  Pappy 
King  was  cappin'  for  the  game.  I  remember  one  night 
in  Danville,  Kentucky" — and  Dean  told  another  story. 
The  stories  were  all  alike,  having  for  their  theme  the 
despoilment  of  some  simpleton  who  had  tried  to  beat 
Dean  or  his  confederates  at  one  of  their  own  numerous 
games. 

"I  was  holding  the  shingle  for  Jim  Steele  when  he 
was  playing  the  broads,  you  understand.  He  was  the 
greatest  spieler  ever.  I  can  see  him  now,  taking  up  the 
tickets,  looking  around  and  saying :  Ts  there  a  specu- 
lator in  the  party?' " 

Dean's  face  was  alight  with  the  excitement  of  dram- 
atizing the  long-past  scene.  He  laid  his  stick  on  the  bar 
and  bent  over,  with  his  white  fingers  held  as  if  they 


THE   TURN   OF  THE   BALANCE       197 

poised  cards.  He  was  a  good  mimic.  One  could  easily 
imagine  the  scene  on  the  trampled  grass,  with  the  white 
canvas  tents  of  the  circus  for  a  background. 

"Dick  Nolan  and  Joe  Hipp  were  capping,  and  Dick 
would  come  up — he  had  the  best  gilly  make-up  in  the 
world,  you  understand,  a  paper  collar,  a  long  linen 
duster  and  big  green  mush — ^he'd  look  over  the  cards — 
see?" — Dean  leaned  over  awkwardly  like  a  country- 
man, pointing  with  a  crooked  forefinger — ^"'and  then 
he'd  say,.  T  think  it's  that  one.'  " 

His  voice  had  changed ;  he  spoke  in  the  cracked  tone 
of  the  farmer,  and  his  little  audience  laughed. 

"Well,  the  guy  hollers,  you  understand,  but  at  the 
come-back  they're  all  swipes — working  in  the  horse 
tents ;  you'd  never  know  'em.  And  then,"  Dean  went 
on,  with  the  exquisite  pleasure  of  remembering,  "old 
Ben  Mellott  was  there  working  the  send — ^you  remem- 
ber Ben,  Dan?'* 

Gibbs  nodded. 

"Jake  Rend  was  running  the  side-show,  and  old  Jew 
Cohen  had  a  dollar  store — a,  drop-case,  you  know." 

Gibbs  nodded  again.  Dean  grew  meditative,  and  a 
silence  fell  on  the  group. 

"We  had  a  great  crowd  of  knucks,  too ;  the  guns  to- 
day are  nothing  to  them.  Those  were  the  days,  Dan. 
Course,  there  wasn't  much  in  it  at  that." 

Dean  meditated  over  the  lost  days  a  moment,  and 
then  he  grew  cheerful  again. 

"I  met  Luke  Evans  last  fall,  Dan,"  he  began  again. 
"In  England.  The  major  and  I  were  running  between 
London  and  Liverpool,  working  the  steamer  trains,  and 
him  and  me — " 

And  he  was  off  into  another  story.  Having  taken  up 


198   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

his  English  experience,  Dean  now  told  a  number  of 
vulgar  stories,  using  the  English  accent,  which  he  could 
imitate  perfectly.  While  in  the  midst  of  one  of  them, 
he  suddenly  started  at  a  footfall,  and  looked  hastily 
over  his  shoulder.  A  man  came  in,  glanced  about,  and 
came  confidently  forward. 

"Good  morning,  Danny,"  he  said,  in  a  tone  of  tlie 
greatest  familiarity. 

Gibbs  answered  the  greeting  soberly,  and  then,  at  a 
sign  from  the  man,  stepped  aside  rather  reluctantly  and 
whispered  with  him.  Dean  eyed  them  narrowly,  took 
in  the  fellow's  attire  from  his  straw  hat  to  his  damp 
shoes,  and,  when  he  could  catch  Gibbs's  eye,  he  crooked 
his  left  arm,  touched  it  significantly,  and  lifted  his 
eyebrows  in  sign  of  question.  Gibbs  shook  his  head 
in  a  negative  that  had  a  touch  of  contempt  for  the  im- 
plication, and  then  drew  the  man  toward  the  bar.  With- 
out the  man's  seeing  him  or  hearing  him.  Dean  touched 
his  arm  again  and  said  to  Gibbs  softly : 

"Elbow?" 

"No,"  said  Gibbs,  "reporter." 

Then  he  turned  and,  speaking  to  the  new-comer,  he 
presented  him  to  Dean,  saying : 

"Mr.  Jordon,  make  you  acquainted  with  Mr.  Wales, 
of  the  Courier/^ 

"Glad  to  meet  you,  Mr.  Jordon,"  said  the  newspaper 
man. 

"Ah,  chawmed,  I'm  suah,"  said  Dean,  keeping  to  the 
English  accent  he  had  just  been  using.  "I  say,  won't 
you  join  us?" 

The  bartender,  at  a  glance  from  Dean,  produced 
another  bottle  of  champagne ;  the  newspaper  man's 
eyes  glistened  with  pleasure*  Dean  was  taking  out  his 


THE  TURN   OF  THE   BALANCE      199 

cigarette  case.  Wales  glanced  at  the  cigarettes,  and 
Dean  hastened  to  proffer  them.  In  conversation  with 
the  reporter  Dean  impersonated  an  English  follower  of 
the  turf  who  had  brought  some  horses  to  America.  As 
he  did  this,  actor  that  he  was,  he  became  more  and 
more  interested  in  his  impromptu  monologue,  assumed 
the  character  perfectly  and  lived  into  it,  and  the  others 
there  who  knew  of  the  deceit  he  was  practising  on  the 
reporter — he  was  nearly  always  practising  some  sort  of 
deceit,  but  seldom  so  innocently  as  now — were  utterly 
delighted ;  they  listened  to  his  guying  until  nearly  mid- 
night, when  Dean,  having  sustained  the  character  of 
the  Englishman  for  more  than  two  hours,  grew  weary 
and  said  he  must  go.  As  he  was  leaving  he  said  to  the 
reporter : 

"You've  been  across,  of  course?  No?  Well,  really 
now,  that's  quite  too  bad,  don't  you  know !  But  I  say, 
whenever  you  come,  you  must  look  me  up,  if  you  don't 
mind,  at  Tarlingham  Towers.  I've  a  bit  of  a  place 
down  in  the  Surrey  country ;  I've  a  beast  there  that's 
just  about  up  to  your  weight.  Have  you  ever  ridden 
to  the  hounds  ?" 

The  reporter  was  delighted ;  he  felt  that  a  distinction 
had  been  conferred  upon  him.  Wishing  to  show  his 
appreciation,  he  asked  Dean,  or  Jordan,  as  he  was  to 
him,  if  he  might  print  an  interview.  Dean  graciously 
consented,  and  the  reporter  left  for  his  office,  glad  of  a 
story  with  which  to  justify  to  his  city  editor,  at  least 
partly,  his  wasted  evening. 

When  Dean  had  gone,  taking  his  three  companions 
with  him,  Gibbs  and  Mason  sat  for  a  long  while  in  the 
back  room. 

"So  that's  Eddie  Dean!"  said  Mason. 


20O      THE  TURN   OF.  THE  BALANCE 

"Yes,"  said  Gibbs,  "thaf  s  him.'' 

"And  what's  his  graft  r 

"Oh,"  said  Gibbs,  "the  send,  the  bull  con,  the  big 
mitt,  the  cross  lift — anything  in  that  line." 

"And  those  two  other  guys  with  him  ?"  asked  Mason. 

"That  little  one  is  Willie  the  Rat,  the  other  is  Gaff- 
ney." 

"Sure-thing  men,  too?" 

"Yes,  they're  in  Ed's  mob." 

Mason  was  still  for  a  while,  then  he  observed : 

"Je's !  He  did  make  a  monkey  of  that  cove  !'* 

Gibbs  laughed.  "Oh,  he's  a  great  cod !  Why,  do  you 
know  what  he  did  once  ?  Well,  he  went  to  Lord  Pais- 
ley's ball  in  Quebec,  impersonating  Sir  Charles  Jordon 
— that's  why  I  introduced  him  as  Mr.  Jordon  to- 
night." Gibbs's  eyes  twinkled.  "He  went  in  to  look  for 
a  rummy,  but  the  flatties  got  on  and  tipped  him  off." 

"He's  smart." 

"Yes,  the  smartest  in  the  business.  He's  made  sev- 
eral ten-century  touches." 

Gibbs  thought  seriously  a  moment  and  then  said : 

"No,  he  isn't  smart;  he's  a  damn  fool,  like  all  of 
them." 

"Fall?" 

"Yes,  settled  twice ;  done  a  two-spot  at  Joliet  and  a 
finiff  at  Ionia." 

Mason  knit  his  brows  and  thought  a  long  time,  while 
Gibbs  smoked.  Finally  Mason  shook  his  head. 

"No,"  he  said,  "no,  Dan,  I  don't  get  it.  I  can  under- 
stand knocking  off  a  peter — ^the  stuff's  right  there.  All 
you  do  is  to  go  take  it.  I  can  understand  a  hold-up, 
or  a  heel,  or  a  prowl;  I  can  see  how  a  gun  reefs  a 
britch  kick  and  gets  a  poke — ^though  I  couldn't  put  my 


THE  TURN   OF  the  BALANCE      201 

hand  in  a  barrel  myself  and  get  it  out  again — without 
breaking  the  barrel.  I  haven't  any  use  for  that  kind, 
which  you  know — but  these  sure-thing  games,  the  big 
mitt  and  the  bull  con — no,  Dan,  I  can't  get  hip." 

Gibbs  laughed. 

"Well,  I  can't  explain  it,  Joe.  You  heard  him  string 
that  chump  to-night." 

Mason  dropped  that  phase  of  the  question  and 
promptly  said : 

"Dan,  I  suppose  there's  games  higher  up,  ain't  they  ?" 

Gibbs  laughed  a  superior  laugh. 

"Higher  up  ?  Joe,  there's  games  that  beat  his  just  as 
much  as  his  beats  yours.  I  could  name  you  men — " 
Then  he  paused. 

Mason  had  grown  very  solemn.  He  was  not  listening 
at  all  to  Gibbs,  and,  after  a  moment  or  two,  he  looked 
up  and  said  earnestly : 

"Dan,  what  you  said  a  while  back  is  dead  right.  I'm 
a  damn  fool.  Look  at  me  now — I've  done  twenty  years, 
and  in  all  my  time  I've  had  less  than  two  thousand 
bucks." 

Gibbs  was  about  to  speak,  but  Mason  was  too  seri- 
ous to  let  himself  be  interrupted. 

"I  was  thinking  it  all  over  to-night,  and  I  decided — 
know  what  I  decided  ?" 

Gibbs  shook  his  head. 

"I  decided,"  Mason  went  on,  "to  square  it  without 
waiting  for  the  big  touch."  Gibbs  was  not  impressed ; 
the  good  thieves  were  always  considering  reformation. 
"I  know  I  can't  get  anything  to  do— I'm  too  old,  and 
besides — ^well,  you  know."  Mason  let  the  situation 
speak  for  itself.  "I'm  about  all  in,  but  I  was  thinking, 
Dan,  this  here  place  you've  got  in  the  country,  can't 


202   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

you — "  Mason  hesitated  a  little — "can't  you  let  me  work 
around  there?  Just  my  board  and  a  few  clothes?" 
Mason  leaned  forward  eagerly. 

"You  know,  Joe,"  said  Gibbs,  seeing  that  Mason 
was  serious,  "that  as  long  as  I've  got  a  place  you  can 
have  a  home  with  me.  I'm  going  to  take  Kate  out  there 
and  live.    I've  got  the  place  almost  paid  for." 

Mason  leaned  back,  tried  to  speak,  paused,  swal- 
lowed, and  moistened  his  lips. 

"I  worried  about  Slim  to-night,"  he  managed  to  say 
presently.  It  was  hard  for  him  to  give  utterance  to 
thoughts  that  he  considered  sentimental.  "My  treating 
him  so,  you  s^b — that  I  decided;  I  want  to  try  it. 
That's  why  I  \|ouldn't  go  with  him ;  he  didn't  under- 
stand, but  maybe  I  can  explain.  As  I  was  thinking  to- 
night, my  head  went  off  again — that  stir  simple,  you 
know." 

He  raised  his  hand  to  his  head  and  Gibbs  was  con- 
cerned. 

"You'd  better  take  a  little  drink,  Joe,"  he  said. 

After  Gibbs  had  brought  the  whisky,  they  sat  there 
and  discussed  the  future  until  the  early  summer  dawn 
was  red. 


Dillon,  Archie,  Mandell  and  Squeak  had  left  the  city 
that  morning.  Dillon  was  gloomy  and  morose  because 
Mason  had  refused  to  join  him.  He  had  been  disap- 
pointed, too,  in  Curly,  but  not  so  much  surprised,  for 
Curly  was  so  strange  and  mysterious  that  nothing  he 
might  do  could  surprise  his  friends.  Cedarville  was  far 
away,  in  Illinois,  and  long  before  daylight  the  four 
men  had  started  on  their  journey  in  a  freight-train. 
Dillon's  plan  was  to  rob  the  bank  that  night.  He  had 
chosen  Saturday  night  because  a  Sunday  would  prob- 
ably intervene  before  discovery,  and  thus  give  them 
time  to  escape.  But  the  journey  was  beset  by  diffi- 
culties ;  the  train  spent  long  hours  in  switching,  in  cut- 
ting out  and  putting  in  cars,  and  at  such  times  the  four 
men  had  been  compelled  to  get  off  and  hide,  lest  the 
trainmen  detect  them.  Besides,  the  train  made  long  in- 
explicable stops,  standing  on  a  siding,  with  nothing  to 
mar  the  stillness  but  the  tired  exhaust  of  the  engine  and 
the  drone  of  the  wide  country-side.  At  noon  the  empty 
box-car  in  which  the  men  had  been  riding  was  cut  out 
and  left  stranded  at  a  village ;  after  that,  unable  to  find 
another  empty  car,  they  rode  on  a  car  that  was  laden 
with  lumber,  but  this,  too,  was  cut  out  and  left  behind. 
Then  they  rode  in  most  uncomfortable  and  dangerous 
positions  on  the  timber-heads  over  the  couplings.  Half- 
way to  Cedarville  they  met  the  storm.    It  had  been 

203 


204   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

gathering  all  the  morning,  and  now  it  broke  suddenly ; 
the  rain  came  down  in  torrents,  and  they  were  drenched 
to  the  skin.  Mandell,  who  was  intensely  afraid  of 
lightning,  suffered  agonies,  and  threatened  to  abandon 
the  mob  at  the  first  opportunity.  Late  in  the  after- 
noon, just  as  the  train  was  pulling  into  the  village  of 
Romeo,  the  rear  brakeman  discovered  them,  called  the 
conductor  and  the  front  brakeman,  and  ordered  the 
men  to  leave  the  train. 

''Stick  and  slug!"  cried  Mandell,  made  irritable  by 
the  storm.  But  Dillon  repressed  him. 

"Unload !"  he  commanded.  ''Don't  goat  'em." 

Archie,  on  the  other  side  of  the  car,  had  not  been 
seen  clearly  by  the  trainmen,  but  the  others  had,  and 
though  Dillon  made  them  all  get  off,  he  could  not  keep 
Squeak  from  stopping  long  enough  to  curse  the  train- 
men with  horrible  oaths.  Then  the  train  went  on  and 
left  them. 

At  evening  they  went  into  the  woods  and  built  a  fire. 
There  were  discouragements  as  to  the  fire;  the  wood 
was  wet,  but  finally  they  achieved  a  blaze,  and  Dillon 
went  into  the  village  after  food.  When  he  returned  the 
fire  was  going  well,  the  men  had  dried  their  clothes, 
and  their  habitual  spirits  had  returned.  In  the  water  of 
a  creek  Dillon  washed  the  can  he  had  found,  and  made 
tea;  they  cooked  bacon  on  pointed  sticks,  broke  the 
bread  and  cheese,  and  ate  their  supper.  Then,  in  the 
comfort  that  came  of  dry  clothes  and  warmth  and  the 
first  meal  they  had  eaten  that  day,  they  sat  about,  rolled 
cigarettes,  and  waited  for  the  night.  Then  darkness 
fell,  Dillon  made  them  put  out  the  fire,  and  they 
tramped  across  the  fields  to  the  railroad. 

"We'll  wait  here  for  the  John  O'Brien,"  said  Dillon, 


THE  TURN   on  THE  BALANCE      205 

when  they  came  to  the  water-tank,  "We  must  get  the 
jug  to-night — that'll  give  us  all  day  to-morrow  for  the 
get-away." 

They  waited  then,  and  waited,  while  the  summer 
night  deepened  to  silence;  once,  the  headlight  of  an 
engine  sent  its  long  light  streaming  down  the  track; 
they  made  ready ;  the  train  came  swaying  toward  them. 

"Hell!"  exclaimed  Mandell,  in  the  disappointment 
that  was  common  to  all  of  them.  "It's  a  rattler !"  And 
the  lighted  windows  of  a  passenger-train  swept  by. 

They  waited  and  waited,  and  no  freight-train  came. 
At  midnight,  when  they  were  all  stiff  and  cold,  Dillon 
ordered  them  into  the  village.  They  were  glad  enough 
to  go.  In  the  one  business  street  of  the  town  they 
found  a  building  in  which  a  light  gleamed.  They 
glanced  through  a  window ;  it  was  the  post-office.  Then 
Dillon  changed  his  plan  in  that  ease  with  which  he 
could  change  any  plan,  and  forgot  the  little  bank  at 
Cedarville.  He  placed  Squeak  at  the  rear  of  the  build- 
ing, Mandell  in  the  front. 

"Come  on,  Dutch,"  he  said. 

He  took  Archie  with  him  because  he  was  not  so  sure 
of  him  as  he  was  of  the  two  other  men,  though  Archie 
felt  that  he  had  been  honored  above  them.  He  followed 
Dillon  into  the  deep  shadows  that  lay  between  the  post- 
office  and  the  building  next  door.  He  kept  close  behind 
Dillon,  and  watched  with  excitement  while  Dillon's  tall 
form  bent  before  one  of  the  windows.  Dillon  was 
groping;  presently  he  stood  upright,  his  back  bowed, 
he  strained  and  grunted  and  swore,  then  the  screws 
gave,  and  Dillon  wrenched  the  little  iron  bars  from  the 
windows. 

"Come  on,"  he  said. 


2o6      THE   TURN   OF   THE   BALANCfi 

He  was  crawling  through  the  window;  Archie  fol- 
lowed. 

Inside,  Dillon  stood  upright,  holding  Archie  behind 
him,  and  peered  about  in  the  dim  light  from  the  oil 
lamp  that  burned  before  a  tin  reflector  on  the  wall. 
The  safe  was  in  the  light.  Dillon  looked  back,  made  a 
mental  note  of  the  window's  location,  and  put  out  the 
lamp.  Then  he  lighted  a  candle  and  knelt  before  the 
safe. 

Archie  stood  with  his  revolver  in  his  hand;  Dillon 
laid  his  on  the  floor  beside  him.  Then  from  the  pocket 
of  his  coat  he  drew  out  some  soap;  a  moment  more 
and  Archie  could  see  him  plastering  up  the  crevices 
about  the  door  of  the  safe,  leaving  but  one  opening,  in 
the  middle  of  the  top  of  the  door.  Then  out  of  the  soap 
he  fashioned  about  this  opening  a  crude  little  cup. 
Archie  watched  intently.  Dillon  worked  rapidly,  ex- 
pertly, and  yet,  as  Archie  noted,  not  so  rapidly  nor  so 
expertly  as  Curly  had  worked.  Curly  was  considered 
one  of  the  most  skilful  men  in  the  business,  but  Dillon 
was  older  and  could  tell  famous  tales  of  the  old  days 
when  they  had  blown  gophers — the  days  when  they 
used  to  drill  the  safes  and  pour  in  powder.  Dillon's 
age  was  telling;  his  fingers  were  clumsy  and  knotted 
with  rheumatism,  and  now  and  then  they  trembled. 

"Now  the  soup,"  Dillon  was  saying,  quite  to  himself, 
and  he  poured  the  nitroglycerin  from  a  bottle  into  the 
little  cup  he  had  made  of  soap. 

"And  the  string,"  said  Archie,  anxious  to  display 
his  knowledge. 

"Cheese  it !"  Dillon  commanded. 

He  was  fixing  a  fulminating  cap  to  the  end  of  a  fuse, 
and  he  inserted  this  into  the  cup.    Then  he  plastered  it 


Archie  could  see  him  plastering  up  th 


e  crevices      Page  206 


'c  e     •    « c     «     c'  '^    c     t         '     '  '      '  .  '      .      c 


.  ;        OF   THE    ^ 


tHE  TURN   OF  THE   BALANCE      207 

all  over  with  soap,  picked  up  his  revolver,  lighted  the 
slow  fuse  from  the  candle,  and,  rising  quickly,  he 
stepped  back,  drawing  Archie  with  him.  They  stood  in 
a  corner  of  the  room  watching  the  creeping  spark;  a 
moment  more  and  there  was  the  thud  of  an  explosion, 
and  Dillon  was  springing  toward  the  safe;  he  seized 
the  handle,  opened  the  heavy  door,  and  was  down  with 
his  candle  peering  into  its  dark  interior.  He  went 
through  it  rapidly,  drew  out  the  stamps  and  the  cur- 
rency and  the  coin.  Another  moment  and  they  were 
outside.  Mandell  and  Squeak  were  where  Dillon  had 
left  them. 
"AU  right,"  Dillon  said.  "Lam!" 


VI 


A  week  later,  returning  by  a  roundabout  way,  Dillon 
and  his  companions  came  back  to  town.  That  night 
Dillon,  Archie,  Squeak,  Mandell  and  Mason  were  ar- 
rested. When  Archie  was  taken  up  to  the  detectives' 
office  and  found  himself  facing  Kouka,  his  heart  sank. 

"Couldn't  take  a  little  friendly  advice,  could  you?" 
said  Kouka,  thrusting  forward  his  black  face. 

Archie  was  dumb. 

"Where'd  you  get  that  gat  ?"  Kouka  demanded. 

Still  Archie  was  dumb. 

"You  might  as  well  tell,"  Kouka  said.  "Your  pals 
have  split  on  you." 

Archie  had  heard  of  that  ruse ;  he  did  not  think  any 
of  them  would  confess,  and  he  was  certain  they  had 
not  done  so  when  Kouka  referred  to  his  revolver,  for 
no  one  but  Jackson  knew  where  he  had  got  the  weapon. 
After  an  hour  Kouka  gave  it  up,  temporarily  at  least, 
and  sent  Archie  back  to  the  prison. 

The  next  morning  all  five  men  were  taken  to  the  of- 
fice of  the  detectives.  Besides  Kouka,  Quinn  and  In- 
spector McFee,  there  were  two  others,  one  of  whom  the 
prisoners  instantly  recognized  as  Detective  Carney.  Dil- 
lon and  Mason  had  long  known  Carney,  and  respected 
him ;  he  was  the  only  detective  in  the  city  whom  they 
did  respect,  for  this  silent,  undemonstrative  man,  with 
the  weather-beaten  face,  white  hair  and  shrewd  blue 
eyes,  had  a  profound  knowledge  of  all  classes  o£  thieves 

208 


THE  TURN   OF  THE   BALANCE      209 

and  their  ways.  Indeed,  this  knowledge,  which  made 
Carney  the  most  efficient  detective  in  the  city,  mihtated 
against  him  with  his  superiors ;  he  knew  too  much  for 
their  comfort.  As  for  Kouka  and  the  other  detectives, 
they  were  jealous  of  him,  though  he  never  interfered 
in  their  work  nor  offered  suggestion  or  criticism ;  but 
they  all  felt  instinctively  that  he  contemned  them. 
When  Dillon  saw  Carney  his  heart  sank ;  Mason's,  on 
the  contrary,  rose.  Carney  gave  no  sign  of  recognition ; 
it  was  plain  that  he  was  a  mere  spectator.  But  when 
Dillon  saw  the  other  man  he  whispered  to  Mason  out 
of  the  corner  of  his  mouth : 

"It's  all  off." 

This  man  was  a  tall,  well-built  fellow,  with  iron-gray 
hair,  a  ruddy  face  and  a  small  black  mustache  above 
full  red  lips ;  he  was  dressed  in  gray,  and  he  bore  him- 
self as  something  above  the  other  officers  present  be- 
cause he  was  an  United  States  inspector.  His  name 
was  Fallen.  He  glanced  at  the  five  men,  and  smiled 
and  nodded  complacently. 

"I  thought  it  looked  like  one  of  your  jobs,"  he  said, 
addressing  Dillon  and  Mason  jointly.  Dillon  could  not 
refrain  from  nudging  Mason,  and  in  the  same  instant 
he  caught  Carney's  eye.  Carney  winked  quietly,  and 
Dillon  smiled,  and  to  hide  the  smile,  self-consciously 
ducked  his  head  and  spat  out  his  tobacco. 

"Well,"  said  Fallen,  "I'm  much  obliged  to  you  men." 
He  included  McFee  officially,  and  Kouka  and  Quinn 
personally  in  this  acknowledgment.  "I'll  have  the  mar- 
shal come  for  them  after  dinner.  I  want  Mason  there 
and  Dillon" — he  pointed  fiercely  and  menacingly — 
"and  Mandell  and  that  kid."  He  was  indicating 
Squeak.  "What's  your  name?"  he  demanded. 


210   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

Squeak  hesitated,  then  said :  "Davis." 

Fallen  laughed  in  his  superior,  federal  way,  and  said : 

"That'll  do  as  well  as  any." 

Then  he  looked  at  Archie. 

*T  don't  want  him,"  he  said.  "He  doesn^t  belong  to 
this  gang;  he  wasn't  there.  There  were  only  four  of 
them.  You  can  cut  him  out." 

Kouka  and  Quinn  looked  at  each  other  in  surprise ; 
they  were  about  to  protest.  In  Archie's  heart,  as  he 
watched  this  little  drama,  a  wild  hope  flamed.  Carney, 
too,  looked  up,  showing  the  first  interest  he  had 
evinced.  Something  in  his  look  deterred  Fallen,  held 
his  eye.  He  knew  Carney  and  his  reputation;  his 
glance  plainly  implied  a  question. 

"You're  wrong  on  that  fellow  Mason,"  said  Carney. 

Fallen  looked  at  him,  then  at  Mason ;  then  he  smiled 
his  superior  smile. 

"Oh,  I  guess  not,"  he  said  lightly.  He  turned  away 
with  his  complacent,  insulting  smile. 

"All  right,"  said  Carney.  "YouVe  got  him  wrong, 
that's  all.  He's  been  here  in  town  for  three  weeks.  Of 
course,  it's  nothing  to  me — 'tain't  my  business."  He 
plunged  his  hands  in  his  trousers  pockets  and  walked 
over  to  the  window. 

The  men  in  the  chained  line  shuffled  uneasily. 

"Do  I  get  out  now  ?"  Archie  asked. 

Kouka  laughed. 

"Yes — when  I'm  through  with  you." 

That  afternoon  Dillon,  Mason,  Mandell  and  Squeak 
were  taken  to  the  county  jail  on  warrants  charging 
them  with  the  robbery  of  the  post-office  at  Romeo. 

Gibbs  appeared  at  the  jail  early  that  evening,  his 
blue  eyes  filled  with  a  distress  that  made  them  almost 


THE   TURN    OF   THE    BALANCE       211 

as  innocent  as  they  must  have  been  when  he  was  a 
little  child. 

"I  just  heard  of  the  pinch,"  he  said  apologetically. 

"Didn't  they  send  you  word  last  night?"  asked 
Dillon. 

Gibbs  shook  his  head  impatiently,  as  if  it  were  use- 
less to  waste  time  in  discussing  such  improbabilities. 

"Never  mind,"  he  said.  "I'll  send  a  mouthpiece," 

"Yes,  do,  Dan,"  said  Mason.  "We  want  a  hearing." 

"Well,  now,  leave  all  that  to  me,  Joe,"  said  Gibbs. 
"I'll  send  you  some  tobacco  and  have  John  fetch  in 
some  chuck." 

Gibbs  attended  to  their  little  wants,  but  he  had  diffi- 
culty as  to  the  lawyer.  He  had,  from  time  to  time,  em- 
ployed various  lawyers  in  the  city,  being  guided  in  his 
selections,  not  by  the  reputed  abilities  of  the  lawyers, 
but  by  his  notions  of  their  pull  with  the  authorities. 
Formerly  he  had  employed  Frisby  on  the  recommenda- 
tion of  Cleary,  the  chief  of  police,  with  whom  Frisby 
divided  such  fees,  but  Frisby's  charges  were  extortion- 
ate, and  lately,  Gibbs  understood,  his  influence  was 
waning.  In  thinking  over  the  other  lawyers,  he  recalled 
Shelley  Thomas,  but  Thomas,  he  found,  was  on  a 
drunk.  At  last  he  decided  on  Marriott. 

"There's  nothing  to  it,"  he  said  to  Marriott,  "espe- 
cially so  far  as  Mason's  concerned;  he's  a  friend  of 
mine.  He's  in  wrong,  but  these  United  States  inspec- 
tors will  job  him  if  they  get  a  chance." 

Marriott  wished  that  Gibbs  had  retained  some  other 
lawyer.  The  plight  of  the  men  seemed  desperate 
enough.  He  thought  them  guilty,  and,  besides,  he 
wished  to  go  away  on  his  vacation.  But  his  interest 
deepened ;  he  found  that  he  was  dealing  with  a  greater 


212   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

power  than  he  encountered  in  the  ordinary  state  case ; 
the  power,  indeed,  of  the  United  States.  The  officials 
in  the  government  building  were  unobliging;  Fallen 
was  positively  insulting;  from  none  of  them  could  he 
receive  any  satisfaction.  The  hearing  was  not  set,  and 
then  one  evening  Fallen  mysteriously  disappeared. 
Marriott  was  enraged,  Gibbs  was  desperate,  and  Mar- 
riott found  himself  sharing  Gibbs's  concern. 

Dillon  and  Mandell  and  Squeak  spoke  only  of  prov- 
ing an  alibi ;  they  said  that  Gibbs  would  arrange  this 
for  them.  This  disheartened  Marriott,  confirmed  his 
belief  in  their  guilt,  and  he  shrank  from  placing  on  the 
stand  the  witnesses  Gibbs  would  supply.  And  then, 
one  afternoon  at  the  jail,  a  strange  experience  befell 
him.  Mason  was  looking  at  him,  his  face  pressed 
against  the  bars ;  he  fixed  his  eyes  on  him,  and,  speak- 
ing  slowly,  with  his  peculiar  habit  of  moistening  his 
lips  and  swallowing  between  his  words,  he  said : 

"You  think  I'm  guilty  of  this,  Mr.  Marriott." 

Marriott  tried  to  smile,  and  tried  to  protest,  but  his 
looks  must  have  belied  him. 

"I  know  you  do,"  Mason  went  on,  *'but  Fm  not,  Mr. 
Marriott.  I've  done  time — lots  of  it,  but  they've  got  me 
wrong  now.  These  inspectors  will  lie,  of  course,  but  I 
can  prove  an  alibi.  What  night  was  the  job  done  ?" 

"The  twelfth,"  said  Marriott. 

"That  was  Saturday,  wasn't  it  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Well,  that  night  I  was  in  Gibbs's.  There  was  a  mob 
of  sure-thing  men  in  there  that  night — Ed  Dean  and 
the  Rat  and  some  others — Gibbs  will  tell  you.  I  can't 
subpoena  them — they  couldn't  help ;  nobody  would  be- 
lieve them,  and  they  dassen't  show,  anyway." 


THE  TURN   of:  THE  BALANCE      213 

"Are  they — "  Marriott  felt  a  delicacy  in  saying  the 
word. 

"Thieves  ?'*  said  Mason.    "Yes — you  see  how  it  is.'* 

"Of  course,"  said  Marriott. 

"But,"  Mason  went  on,  "there  was  a  fellow  in  there 
— I  don't  know  his  name — a  reporter ;  he  put  a  piece  in 
his  paper  the  next  day  about  Dean.  Dean  was  kidding 
him — Gibbs  can  tell  you.  I  wish  you'd  see  him — he'll 
remember  me,  and  he  can  fix  the  time  by  that  piece  he 
wrote." 

Mason  paused.  i 

"I've  done  nearly  twenty  years,  Mr.  Marriott,"  he 
said  presently.  "That  was  all  right ;  they  done  that  on 
the  square;  this  is  the  first  time  they  ever  had  me  in 
wrong.  Dillon  was  with  me  every  time — we  worked 
together — that'll  go  against  me.  And  them  inspectors 
don't  care — they'd  just  as  soon  job  a  fellow  as  not.  All 
I  ask  now  is  a  fair  show.  But  those  United  States 
courts  are  a  fierce  game  to  put  a  man  up  against." 

While  Mason  was  talking  a  great  wave  of  sympathy 
swept  over  Marriott;  a  conviction  came  to  him  that 
Mason  was  telling  the  truth. 

"But,"  he  said  as  the  thought  came  to  him,  "can't 
Dillon  and  the  others  help  you  ?" 

"Well,"  Mason  hesitated.  "They've  got  themselves 
to  look  after.  I'd  rather  fall  myself  than  to  throw 
them  down.  You  see  Gibbs  about  that  reporter." 

Marriott  was  convinced  that  Mason  was  not  deceiv- 
ing him ;  he  felt  a  reproach  at  his  own  original  lack  of 
faith  in  the  man.  As  he  waited  for  the  turnkey  to  un- 
lock the  door  and  let  him  out,  a  sickness  came  over  him. 
The  jail  was  new ;  there  were  many  boasts  about  its 
modern  construction,  its  sanitary  conditions,  and  all 


214      "THE   TURN   OF   THE   BALANCE 

that,  but  when  he  went  out,  he  was  glad  of  the 
cool  air  of  the  evening — it  was  wholly  different  from 
the  atmosphere  inside,  however  scientifically  pure 
that  may  have  been.  He  stopped  a  moment  and  looked 
back  at  the  jail.  It  lifted  its  stone  walls  high  above 
him;  it  was  all  clean,  orderly,  and  architecturally  not 
bad  to  look  on.  The  handsome  residence  of  the  sheriff 
was  brilliantly  lighted ;  there  were  lace  curtains  at  the 
windows,  and  within,  doubtless,  all  the  comforts,  and 
yet — the  building  depressed  Marriott.  It  struck  him, 
though  he  could  not  then  tell  why,  as  a  hideous  anach- 
ronism. He  thought  of  the  men  mewed  within  its 
stone  walls ;  he  could  see  Dillon's  long  eager  face,  ugly 
with  its  stubble  of  beard ;  he  could  see  the  reproach 
in  Mason's  eyes ;  he  could  see  the  shadowy  forms  of 
the  other  prisoners,  walking  rapidly  up  and  down 
the  corridors  in  their  cramped  exercises — how  many 
were  guilty?  how  many  innocent?  He  could  not  tell; 
none  could  tell ;  they  perhaps  could  not  tell  themselves. 
A  great  pity  for  them  all  filled  his  breast ;  he  longed  to 
set  them  all  free.  He  wished  this  burden  were  lifted 
from  him ;  he  wished  Gibbs  had  never  come  to  him ;  he 
wished  he  could  forget  Mason — but  he  could  not,  and  a 
great  determination  seized  him  to  liberate  this  man,  to 
prevent  this  great  injustice  which  was  gathering  om- 
inously in  the  world,  drawing  within  its  coils  not  only 
Mason,  but  all  those  who,  like  Fallen  and  the  other  offi- 
cials, were  concerned  in  the  business,  even  though  they 
remained  free  in  the  outer  world.  And  Marriott  had 
one  more  thought :  if  he  could  not  prevent  the  injustice, 
would  it  taint  him,  too,  as  it  must  taint  all  who  came 
in  contact  with  it  ?  He  shuddered  with  a  vague,  super- 
stitious fear. 


THE  tURN  OF  THE  BALANCE      215 

Marriott  found  Wales,  who  recalled  the  evening  at 
Gibbs's,  consulted  the  files  of  his  newspaper,  made  sure 
of  the  date,  and  then  went  with  Marriott  to  the  jail 
and  looked  through  the  bars  into  Mason's  expectant 
eyes.  He  prolonged  his  inspection,  plainly  for  the 
effect.  Presently  he  said : 

"Yes,  he  was  there." 

''You'll  swear  to  it  ?"  asked  Marriott. 

"Sure,"  said  Wales,  "with  pleasure." 

There  was  relief  in  Mason's  eyes  and  in  his  manner, 
as  there  was  relief  in  Marriott's  mind. 

"That  makes  it  all  right,  Joe,"  he  said,  and  Mason 
smiled  gratefully.  Marriott  left  the  jail  happy.  His 
faith  was  restored.  The  universe  resumed  its  order  and 
its  reason.  After  all,  he  said  to  himself,  justice  will 
triumph.  He  felt  now  that  he  could  await  the  prelim- 
inary hearing  with  calmness.  Wales's  identification  of 
Mason  made  it  certain  that  he  could  establish  an  alibi 
for  him ;  he  must  depend  on  Gibbs  for  the  others,  but 
somehow  he  did  not  care  so  much  for  them ;  they  had 
not  appealed  to  him  as  Mason  had,  whether  because  of 
his  conviction  that  they  were  guilty  or  not,  he  could  not 
say.  The  hearing  was  set  for  Thursday  at  two  o'clock, 
but  Marriott  looked  forward  to  it  with  the  assurance 
that  as  to  Mason,  at  least,  there  was  no  doubt  of  the 
outcome. 


VII 


Although  Fallen  had  told  the  police  they  could  set 
Archie  free,  the  police  did  not  set  him  free. 

"It's  that  fellow  Kouka,"  Archie  explained  to  Mar- 
riott. "He's  got  it  in  for  me ;  he  wants  to  see  me  get 
the  gaff." 

That  afternoon  Archie  was  legally  charged  with  be- 
ing a  "suspicious  person."  The  penalty  for  being  thus 
suspected  by  the  police  was  a  fine  of  fifty  dollars  and 
imprisonment  in  the  workhouse  for  sixty  days.  Mar- 
riott was  angry ;  the  business  was  growing  complicated. 
He  began  to  fear  that  he  would  never  get  away  on  his 
vacation;  he  was  filled  with  hatred  for  Fallen,  for 
Kouka,  because  just  now  they  personified  a  system 
against  which  he  felt  himself  powerless ;  finally,  he  was 
angry  with  Archie,  with  Dillon,  even  with  Mason,  for 
their  stupidity  in  getting  into  such  desperate  scrapes. 

"They're  fools — that's  what  they  are,"  he  said  to 
himself ;  "they're  crazy  men."  But  at  this  thought  he 
softened.  When  he  recalled  Mason  in  his  cell  at  the 
jail,  and  Archie  in  the  old  prison  at  the  Central  Sta- 
tion, his  anger  gave  way  to  pity.  He  resolved  to  give 
up  his  vacation,  if  necessary,  and  fight  for  their  release. 
He  determined  to  demand  a  jury  to  try  Archie  on  this 
charge  of  suspicion ;  he  knew  how  Bostwick  and  all  the 
attaches  of  the  police  court  disliked  to  have  a  jury  de- 
manded, because  it  made  them  trouble.  As  he  walked 
up  the  street  he  began  to  arrange  the  speech  he  would 

216 


THE  TURN   OF  THE   BALANCE      217 

make  in  Archie's  defense;  presently,  he  noticed  that 
persons  turned  and  looked  at  him ;  he  knew  he  had  been 
talking  to  himself,  and  he  felt  silly ;  these  people  would 
think  him  crazy.  This  dampened  his  ardor,  crushed  his 
imagination  and  ruined  his  speech.  He  began  to  think 
of  Mason  again ;  he  would  have  to  let  Archie's  case  go 
until  after  Mason  had  had  a  hearing ;  he  must  do  one 
thing  at  a  time. 

Archie  had  been  able  to  endure  the  confinement  as 
long  as  Mason  and  Dillon  and  Mandell  and  Squeak 
were  there ;  the  five  men  had  formed  a  class  by  them- 
selves ;  they  had  a  certain  superiority  in  the  eyes  of  the 
other  prisoners,  who  were  confined  for  drunkenness, 
for  disturbance,  for  fighting,  for  petty  thefts  and  other 
insignificant  offenses.  But  when  his  companions  were 
taken  away,  when  his  own  hope  of  liberty  failed,  he 
grew  morose.  The  city  prison  was  an  incredibly  filthy 
place.  The  walls  dripped  always  with  dampness.  High 
up,  a  single  gas-jet  burned  economically  in  its  mantle, 
giving  the  place  the  only  light  it  ever  knew.  A  bench 
ran  along  the  wall  below  it,  and  on  this  bench  the 
prisoners  sat  all  day  and  talked,  or  stretched  themselves 
and  slept ;  now  and  then,  for  exercise,  they  tried  chin- 
ning themselves  from  the  little  iron  gallery  that  ran 
around  the  cells  of  the  upper  tier.  Twice  a  day  they 
were  fed  on  bologna  and  coffee  and  bread.  At  night 
they  were  locked  in  cells,  the  lights  were  put  out,  and 
the  place  became  a  hideous  bedlam.  Men  snored  from 
gross  dissipations,  vermin  crawled,  rats  raced  about, 
and  the  drunken  men,  whose  bodies  from  time  to  time 
were  thrown  into  the  place,  went  mad  with  terror 
when  they  awoke  from  their  stupors,  and  cursed  and 
blasphemed.    The  crawling  vermin  and  the  scuttling 


2i8   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

rats,  the  noises  that  suggested  monsters,  made  their 
delirium  real.  The  atmosphere  of  the  prison  was  foul, 
compounded  of  the  fumes  of  alcohol  exhaled  by  all 
those  gaping  mouths,  of  the  feculence  of  all  those 
filthy  bodies,  of  the  foul  odors  of  the  slop-pails,  of  the 
germs  of  all  the  diseases  that  had  been  brought  to  the 
place  in  forty  years.  Archie  could  not  sleep;  no  one 
could  sleep  except  those  who  were  overcome  by  liquor, 
and  they  had  awful  nightmares. 

His  few  moments  of  relief  came  when  the  turnkey, 
a  man  who  had  been  embruted  by  long  years  of  locking 
other  men  in  the  prison,  opened  the  door,  called  him 
with  a  curse  and  turned  him  over  to  Kouka.  Then  the 
respite  ended.  He  was  subjected  to  new  terrors,  to 
fresh  horrors,  surpassing  those  physical  terrors  of  the 
night  by  infinity.  For  Kouka  and  Quinn  took  him  into 
a  little  room  off  the  detectives'  office,  closed  and  locked 
the  door,  and  then  for  two  hours  questioned  him  about 
the  robbery  of  the  post-office  at  Romeo,  about  countless 
other  robberies  in  the  city  and  out  of  it ;  they  accused 
him  of  a  hundred  crimes,  pressed  him  to  tell  where  he 
had  stolen  the  revolver.  They  bent  their  wills  against 
his,  they  shook  their  fingers  under  his  nose,  their  fists 
in  his  face ;  they  told  him  they  knew  where  he  had  got 
the  revolver;  they  told  him  that  his  companions  had 
confessed.  He  was  borne  down  and  beaten;  he  felt 
himself  grow  weak  and  faint ;  at  times  a  nausea  over- 
came him — he  was  wringing  with  perspiration. 

The  first  day  of  this  ordeal  he  sat  in  utter  silence,  sus- 
tained by  dogged  Teutonic  stubbornness.  That  after- 
noon they  renewed  the  torture ;  still  he  did  not  reply. 

The  morning  of  the  second  day,  though  weakened  in 
body  and  mind,  he  still  maintained  his  stubbornness; 
that  afternoon  they  had  brought  McFee  with  a  fresh 


THE  TURN   OF  THE   BALANCE      219 

will  to  bear  on  him.  By  evening  he  told  them  he  had 
stolen  the  revolver  in  Chicago.  He  did  this  in  the  hope 
of  peace.  It  did  gain  him  a  respite,  but  not  for  long. 
The  next  morning  they  told  him  he  had  lied  and  he 
admitted  it ;  then  he  gave  them  a  dozen  explanations  of 
his  possession  of  the  revolver,  all  different  and  all  false. 
Then,  toward  evening,  Kouka  suddenly  fell  upon  him, 
knocked  him  from  his  chair  with  a  blow,  and  then,  as 
he  lay  on  the  floor,  beat  him  with  his  enormous  hairy 
fists.  Quinn,  the  only  other  person  in  the  room,  stood 
by  and  looked  on.  Finally,  Quinn  grew  alarmed  and 
said: 

"Cheese  it,  Ike !  Cheese  it  V* 

Kouka  stopped  and  got  up. 

Archie  was  weeping,  his  whole  body  trembling,  his 
nerves  gone.  That  night  he  lay  moaning  in  his  ham- 
mock, and  the  man  in  the  cell  under  him  and  the  man  in 
the  cell  next  him,  cursed  him.  In  the  morning  they 
took  him  again  up  to  the  detective's  office ;  this  was  the 
morning  of  the  third  day.  Archie  was  in  a  daze,  his 
mind  was  no  longer  clear,  and  he  wondered  vaguely, 
but  with  scarcely  any  interest,  why  it  was  that  Kouka 
looked  so  smiling  and  pleasant. 

"Set  down.  Arch,  old  boy,"  Kouka  said,  "and  let  me 
tell  you  all  about  it." 

And  then  Kouka  told  him  just  where  he  had  stolen 
the  revolver,  and  when,  and  how — told  him,  indeed, 
more  about  the  hardware  store  and  the  owners  of  it 
than  Archie  had  ever  known.  jVnd  yet  Archie  did  not 
seem  surprised  at  this.  He  felt  numbly  that  it  was  no 
longer  worth  while  to  deny  it — he  wondered  why  he 
ever  had  denied  it  in  the  first  place.  It  did  not  matter ; 
nothing  mattered;  there  was  no  difference  betweea 
things — ^they  were  all  the  same.  But  presently  his  mind 


220   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

became  suddenly  clear;  he  was  conscious  that  there 
was  one  unanswered  question  in  the  world. 

*'Say,  Kouka,"  he  said,  '1iow  did  you  tumble?" 

Kouka  laughed.  He  was  in  fine  humor  that  morning. 

*'Oh,  it's  no  use,  my  boy,"  he  said ;  "it's  no  use ;  you 
can't  fool  your  Uncle  Isaac.  You'd  better  'ave  taken 
his  advice  long  ago — and  been  a  good  boy." 

"That's  all  right,"  said  Archie,  a  strange  calm  having 
come  to  him  because  of  the  change  in  the  world,  *'but 
who  put  you  wise  ?" 

Kouka  looked  at  Quinn  and  smiled,  and  then  he 
said  to  Archie : 

*'0h,  what  you  don't  know  won't  hurt  you." 

Then  he  had  Archie  taken  back  to  the  prison,  but 
before  they  locked  him  up  Kouka  gave  him  a  box  of 
cigarettes  he  had  taken  from  a  prostitute  whom  he  had 
arrested  the  night  before,  and  he  left  Archie  leaning 
against  the  door  of  the  prison  smoking  one  of  the 
cigarettes. 

"What  have  they  been  doing  to  you  ?"  asked  a  pris- 
oner. 

"The  third  degree,"  said  Archie  laconically. 

The  knowledge  which  Kouka  preferred  to  shroud  in 
mystery  had  been  obtained  in  a  simple  way.  Glancing 
over  the  records  in  the  detective's  office,  he  had  by 
chance  come  across  an  old  report  of  the  robbery  of  a 
hardware  store.  Kouka  had  taken  the  revolver  found 
on  Archie  to  the  merchant,  and  the  merchant  had  iden- 
tified it.  That  evening  Harriott  read  in  the  newspapers 
conspicuous  accounts  of  the  brilliant  work  of  Detective 
Kouka  in  solving  the  mystery  that  had  surrounded  a 
desperate  burglary.  The  articles  gave  Kouka  the  great- 
est praise. 


VIII 

The  United  States  court-room  had  been  closed  ever 
since  court  adjourned  in  May,  but  when  it  was  thrown 
open  for  the  hearing  of  the  case  against  Dillon  and 
Mason  and  the  rest,  it  was  immediately  imbued  with 
the  atmosphere  of  federal  authority.  This  atmosphere, 
cold,  austere  and  formal,  smote  Marriott  like  a  blast 
the  moment  he  pushed  through  the  green  baize  doors. 

The  great  court-room  was  furnished  in  black  wal- 
nut ;  the  dark  walls  immediately  absorbed  the  light  that 
came  through  the  tall  windows.  On  the  wall  behind  the 
bench  was  an  oil  portrait  of  a  former  judge ;  Marriott 
could  see  it  now  in  the  slanting  light — the  grave  and 
solemn  face,  smooth-shaven,  with  the  fine  white  hair 
above  it,  expressing  somehow  the  older  ideals  of  the  re- 
public. On  the  wall,  laureled  Roman  fasces  were  paint- 
ed in  gilt.  The  whole  room  was  somber  and  gloomy, 
suggesting  the  power  of  a  mighty  government  poised 
menacingly  above  its  people;  there  were  hints  of  au- 
thority and  old  precedents  in  that  atmosphere. 

The  reason  the  room  held  this  atmosphere  was  that 
the  judge  who  ordinarily  sat  on  the  bench  had  been  ap- 
pointed to  his  position  for  life,  and  there  were  no  real 
checks  on  his  power.  For  twenty  years  before  he  had 
been  appointed  this  man  had  been  the  attorney  for  great 
corporations,  had  amassed  a  fortune  in  their  promotion 
and  defense,  and,  as  a  result,  his  sympathies  and  preju- 
dices were  with  the  rich  and  powerful.  He  knew  noth- 

221 


222      THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

ing  of  the  common  currents  and  impulses  of  humanity, 
having  never  been  brought  in  contact  with  the  people ; 
the  almost  unlimited  power  he  wielded,  and  was  to 
wield  until  he  died,  made  him,  quite  naturally,  auto- 
cratic, and  he  had  impressed  his  character  on  the  room 
and  on  all  who  held  official  positions  there.  The  clerks, 
commissioners  and  assistant  prosecutors  whom  he  ap- 
pointed imitated  him  and  acquired  his  habits  of 
thought,  for  they  received  his  opinions  just  as  they  re- 
ceived his  orders. 

Marriott  sat  at  the  table  and  waited,  and  while  he 
waited  looked  about.  He  looked  at  Wilkison,  the  com- 
missioner; the  judge  had  appointed  him  to  his  place; 
the  amount  of  fees  he  received  depended  entirely  on  the 
number  of  cases  the  district  attorney  and  his  assistants 
brought  before  him;  consequently,  there  being  two 
commissioners,  he  wished  to  have  the  good  will  of  the 
district  attorney,  and  always  reached  decisions  that 
would  please  him. 

Dalrymple,  the  assistant  district  attorney,  was  a 
good-looking  young  man  with  a  smooth-shaven,  regular 
face  that  might  have  been  pleasant,  but,  because  of  his 
new  importance,  it  now  wore  a  stern  and  forbidding 
aspect.  He  was  dressed  in  new  spring  clothes;  the 
trousers  were  rolled  up  at  the  bottoms,  showing  the  low 
tan  shoes  which  just  then  had  come  again  into  vogue. 
He  wore  a  pink  flannel  shirt  of  exquisite  texture;  on 
this  flannel  shirt  was  a  white  linen  collar.  This  com- 
bination produced  an  effect  which  was  thought  to  give 
him  the  final  touch  of  aristocracy  and  refinement.  When 
he  was  not  talking  to  Wilkison  or  to  Fallen,  he  was 
striding  about  the  court-room  with  his  hands  in  his 
trousers  pockets,  Once  he  stopped,  drew  a  silver  case 


THE   TURN   OF   THE   BALANCE      223 

from  his  pocket  and  lighted  a  cigarette  made  with  his 
monogram  on  the  paper. 

Marriott  turned  from  Dalrymple  with  disgust;  he 
looked  beyond  the  railing,  and  there,  on  the  walnut 
benches,  sat  Gibbs,  with  a  retinue  that  made  Marriott 
smile.  They  must  have  come  in  when  Marriott  was  pre- 
occupied, for  he  was  surprised  to  see  them.  Gibbs  sat 
on  the  end  of  one  bench,  as  uncomfortable  and  ill  at 
ease  as  he  would  have  been  in  a  pew  at  church.  He  was 
shaved  to  a  pinkness,  his  hair  was  combed  smooth,  and 
he  was  very  solemn.  Marriott  could  easily  see  that  the 
atmosphere  of  the  court-room  oppressed  and  cowed 
him;  he  had  lost  his  native  bearing,  and  had  suddenly 
grown  meek,  humble  and  afraid.  Marriott  knew  none 
of  the  others;  there  were  half  a  dozen  men,  none  of 
them  dressed  as  well  as  Gibbs,  with  strange  visages, 
marked  by  crime  and  suffering,  all  the  more  touching 
because  they  were  so  evidently  unconscious  of  these 
effects.  The  heads  ranged  along  the  bench  were  of 
strange  shapes,  startlingly  individual  in  one  sense,  very 
much  alike  in  another.  They  were  all  solemn,  afraid  to 
speak,  bearing  themselves  self-consciously,  like  children 
suddenly  set  out  before  the  public.  On  one  bench  sat 
a  young  girl,  and  something  unmistakable  in  her  eyes, 
in  her  mouth,  in  the  clothes  she  wore — she  had  piled  on 
herself  all  the  finery  she  had — told  what  she  was.  Her 
toilet,  on  which  she  had  spent  such  enormous  pains, 
produced  the  very  effect  the  womanhood  left  in  her 
had  striven  to  avoid. 

Marriott  smiled,  until  he  detected  the  deep  concern 
which  Gibbs  w^as  trying  to  hide;  then  his  heart  was 
touched,  as  the  toilet  of  the  girl  had  touched  it.  Mar- 
riott knew  that  these  people  were  the  witnesses  hy^ 


224   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

whom  Gibbs  expected  to  establish  an  alibi  for  Dillon 
and  Squeak  and  Mandell ;  the  sight  of  them  did  not  re- 
assure him;  he  had  again  that  disheartening  convic- 
tion of  the  utter  lack  of  weight  their  appearance  would 
carry  with  any  court ;  he  did  not  credit  them  himself, 
and  he  began  to  feel  a  shame  for  offering  such  wit- 
nesses. He  was  half  decided,  indeed,  not  to  put  them 
forward.  But  his  greater  concern  came  with  the  thought 
of  Mason,  whom  he  believed  to  be  innocent;  where,  he 
suddenly  wondered,  was  the  reporter  Wales? 

But  just  at  this  moment  the  green  baize  doors  of  the 
court-room  swung  inward  and  suddenly  all  the  people 
in  the  court-room — Dalrymple,  Fallen,  Wilkison,  Mar- 
riott, Gibbs,  the  clerks  and  the  reporters,  the  bailiff  and 
the  group  Gibbs  had  brought  up  with  him  from  the 
under  world — forgot  the  distinctions  and  prejudices 
and  hatreds  that  separated  them,  yielded  to  the  claims 
of  their  common  humanity  and  became  as  one  in  the 
eager  curiosity  which  concentrated  all  their  interest  on 
the  entering  prisoners. 

They  came  in  a  row,  chained  together  by  handcuffs, 
in  charge  of  deputy  marshals.  They  were  marched 
within  the  bar,  still  wearing  the  hats  they  could  not  re- 
move. The  United  States  marshal  himself  and  another 
deputy  came  forward  and  joined  the  deputies  in  charge 
of  the  prisoners.  The  officers  took  off  their  hats  for 
them,  and  when  they  took  chairs  at  the  table,  stood 
close  beside  them,  as  if  to  give  the  impression  that  the 
prisoners  were  most  dangerous  and  desperate  char- 
acters, and  that  they  themselves  were  officials  with  the 
highest  regard  for  their  duty. 

Wilkison,  with  great  deliberation,  was  seating  him- 
self at  the  clerk's  desk.  Ordinarily  he  held  hearings  in 


THE  TURN   OF  THE   BALANCE      2^5 

an  anteroom,  but  as  this  Hearing  would  be  reported  in 
the  newspapers  he  felt  justified  in  using  the  court- 
room; besides,  he  could  then  test  some  of  the  sensa- 
tions of  a  judge. 

"Aren't  you  going  to  unhandcuff  these  men?"  said 
Marriott  to  the  marshal. 

The  marshal  merely  smiled  in  a  superior  official  way, 
and  the  smile  completed  the  rage  that  had  seized  on 
Marriott  when  the  deputies  stationed  themselves  behind 
the  prisoners.  Marriott  felt  in  himself  all  the  evil  and 
all  the  hatred  that  were  in  the  hearts  of  these  officers ; 
he  felt  all  the  hatred  that  was  gathering  about  these 
prisoners;  it  seemed  that  every  one  there  wished  to 
revenge  himself  personally  on  them.  Fallen,  sitting 
beside  Dalrymple,  had  an  air  of  directing  the  whole 
proceeding,  as  if  his  duties  did  not  end  with  the  appre- 
hension of  his  prisoners,  but  required  him  to  see  that 
the  assistant  district  attorney,  the  commissioner  and 
the  rest  did  their  whole  duty.  He  sat  there  with  the  two 
rosy  spots  on  his  plump  cheeks  glowing  a  deeper  red, 
his  blue  eyes  gloating.  Marriott  restrained  himself  by 
an  effort ;  he  needed  all  his  faculties  now. 

"The  case  of  the  United  States  versus  Dillon  and 
others."  Wilkison  was  officially  fingering  the  papers  on 
his  desk.    "Are  the  defendants  ready  for  hearing?" 

"We're  ready,  yes,"  said  Marriott,  plainly  excluding 
from  his  words  and  manner  any  of  the  respect  for  the 
court  ordinarily  simulated  by  lawyers.  Mason,  sitting 
beside  him,  and  Dillon  and  the  rest  followed  with  eager 
glances  every  movement,  listened  to  every  word.  They 
forgot  the  handcuffs,  and  fastened  their  eyes  on  Fallen 
standing  up  to  be  sworn.  When  the  oath  had  been  ad- 
ministered, Dalrymple  put  the  stereotyped  preliminary 


22G      THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

questions  and  then  asked  him  who  the  defendants  were. 
Fallen  pointed  to  them  one  after  another  and  pro- 
nounced their  names  as  he  did  so.  When  he  had  done 
this  Dalrymple  turned,  looked  at  Marriott  with  his 
chin  in  the  air,  and  said  pertly : 

"Take  the  witness." 

Marriott  was  surprised  and  puzzled;  the  suspicions 
that  he  had  all  along  held  were  increased. 

"How  many  witnesses  will  you  have  ?"  he  asked. 

"This  is  all,"  said  Dalrymple  with  an  impertinent 
movement  of  the  lip,  "except  this."  He  held  up  a  legal 
document.  "This  certified  copy  of  an  indictment — " 

At  the  word  "indictment"  the  truth  flashed  on  Mar- 
riott. He  understood  now ;  this  explained  the  delay,  the 
stealth,  the  subterfuge  of  which  he  had  been  dimly  con- 
scious for  days ;  this  explained  the  conduct  of  the  offi- 
cials ;  this  explained  Fallen's  absence — he  had  gone  to 
Illinois,  secured  the  indictment  of  the  four  men,  and 
returned.  And  this  was  not  a  preliminary  hearing  at 
all ;  it  was  a  mere  formality  for  the  purpose  of  remov- 
ing the  prisoners  to  the  jurisdiction  in  which  the  crime 
had  been  committed.  He  saw  now  that  he  would  not 
be  allowed  to  offer  any  testimony;  nothing  could  be 
done.  The  men  would  be  tried  in  Illinois,  where  they 
could  have  no  witnesses,  for  the  law,  as  he  remembered, 
provided  that  process  for  witnesses  to  testify  on  behalf 
of  defendant  could  not  be  issued  beyond  a  radius  of 
one  hundred  miles  of  the  court  where  they  were  tried ; 
they  were  poor,  they  could  not  pay  to  transport  wit- 
nesses, and  now  the  alibis  for  Dillon  and  Squeak  and 
Mandell  could  not  be  established,  and  Mason  could  not 
have  the  benefit  of  Wales's  testimony,  unless  deposi- 
tions were  used,  and  he  knew  what  a  farce  depositions 


THE   TURN   OF   THE   BALANCE      22J 

are.  He  had  been  tricked.  It  was  all  legal,  of  course, 
but  he  had  been  tricked,  that  was  all,  and  he  was  filled 
with  mortification  and  shame  and  rage. 

"Mr.  Marriott,"  Wilkison  was  saying  in  his  most  im- 
partial tone,  "do  you  wish  to  examine  this  witness  ?" 

Marriott  was  recalled.  He  looked  at  Fallen,  waiting 
there  in  the  witness-chair,  pulling  at  his  little  mustache, 
the  pink  spots  in  his  cheeks  glowing,  and  his  eyes  striv- 
ing for  an  expression  of  official  unconcern.  Marriott 
questioned  Fallen,  but  without  heart.  He  tried  to  break 
the  force  of  his  identification,  but  Fallen  was  positive. 
They  were  Joseph  Mason,  James  Dillon,  Louis  Skin- 
ner, alias  Squeak,  and  Stephen  Mandell.  When  Mar- 
riott had  finished,  Dalrymple  rose  and  said : 

"Your  Honor,  we  offer  as  evidence  a  certified  copy  of 
an  indictment  returned  by  the  grand  jury  at  this  pres- 
ent term,  and  the  government  rests." 

He  looked  in  triumph  at  Marriott. 

The  prisoners  were  leaning  eagerly  over  the  table 
under  which  they  hid  their  shackled  hands,  not  under- 
standing in  the  least  the  forces  that  were  playing  with 
them.  Dillon's  long,  unshaven  face  was  suspended 
above  the  green  felt,  his  eyes,  bright  with  excitement 
and  deepest  interest,  shifting  quickly  from  Dalrymple 
to  Marriott  and  then  back  again  to  Dalrymple.  Mason's 
eyes  went  from  one  to  the  other  of  the  lawyers,  but  his 
gaze  was  easier,  not  so  swift,  hardly  so  interested.  A 
slight  smile  lurked  beneath  the  mask  he  wore,  and  the 
commissioner  decided  with  pleasure  that  this  smile 
proved  Mason's  guilt,  a  conclusion  which  he  found  it 
helpful  to  communicate  to  Dalrymple  after  the  hearing. 
Mandell  and  Squeak  wore  heavy  expressions ;  the  real- 
ization of  their  fate  had  not  yet  struggled  to  conscious- 


228'     THE   TURN   OF   THE   BALANCE 

ness.  In  fact,  they  did  not  know  what  had  happened, 
and  they  were  trying  to  learn  from  a  study  of  the  ex- 
pressions of  Dalrymple  and  Marriott. 

Dalrymple  continued  to  look  at  Marriott  in  the  pride 
he  felt  at  having  beaten  him.  Because  he  had  really 
been  unfair  and  had  practised  a  sharp  trick  on  Mar- 
riott, he  disliked  him.  This  dislike  showed  now  in  Dal- 
rymple's  glance,  as  it  had  been  expressed  in  the  sharp, 
important  voice  in  which  he  had  put  his  questions  dur- 
ing the  hearing.  He  had  spoken  with  an  affected  ac- 
cent, and  had  objected  to  every  question  that  Marriott 
asked  on  cross-examination.  He  had  learned  to  speak 
in  this  affected  accent  at  college,  where  he  had  spent 
four  years,  after  which  he  had  spent  three  other  years 
at  a  law  school ;  consequently,  he  knew  little  of  that  life 
from  which  he  had  been  withdrawn  for  those  seven 
years,  knew  nothing  of  its  significance,  or  meaning,  or 
purpose,  and,  of  course,  nothing  of  human  nature.  The 
stern  and  forbidding  aspect  in  which  he  tried  to  mask 
a  countenance  that  might  have  been  good-looking  and 
pleasing,  had  it  worn  a  natural  and  simple  expression, 
was  amusing  to  those  who,  like  Dillon  and  Mason,  were 
older  and  wiser  men.  Dalrymple  had  no  views  or  opin- 
ions or  principles  of  his  own;  those  he  had,  like  his 
clothes  and  his  accent,  had  been  given  him  by  his  par- 
ents or  the  teachers  his  parents  had  hired ;  he  had  ac- 
cepted all  the  ideas  and  prejudices  of  his  own  class  as 
if  they  were  axioms.  He  felt  it  a  fine  thing  to  be  there 
in  the  United  States  court  in  an  official  capacity  that 
made  every  one  look  at  him,  and,  as  he  supposed,  envy 
him ;  that  gave  an  authority  to  anything  he  said.  He 
thought  it  an  especially  fine  thing  to  represent  the  gov- 
ernment.  He  used  this  word  frequently,  saying  "the 


THE   TURN   OF  THE   BALANCE      229 

government  feels,"  or  "the  government  wishes,"  or 
"the  government  understands,"  speaking,  indeed,  as  if 
he  were  the  government  himself.  The  power  behind 
him  was  tremendous ;  an  army  stood  ready  at  the  last  to 
back  up  his  sayings,  his  opinions,  and  his  mistakes. 
Against  such  a  power,  of  course,  Dillon  and  Mason, 
who  were  poor,  shabby  men,  had  no  chance.  Dalrym- 
ple,  to  be  sure,  had  no  notion  of  what  he  was  doing  to 
these  men ;  no  notion  of  how  he  was  affecting  their 
lives,  their  futures,  perhaps  their  souls.  He  was  totally 
devoid  of  imagination  and  incapable  of  putting  him- 
self in  the  place  of  them  or  of  any  other  men,  except 
possibly  those  who  were  dressed  as  he  was  dressed  and 
spoke  with  similar  affectation.  He  did  not  consider  Dil- 
lon and  Mason  men,  or  human  beings  at  all,  but  another 
kind  of  organism  or  animate  life,  expressed  to  him  by 
the  word  "criminal."  He  did  not  consider  what  hap- 
pened to  them  as  important ;  the  only  things  that  were 
important  to  him  were,  first,  to  be  dressed  in  a  correct 
fashion,  and  modestly,  that  is,  to  be  dressed  like  a  gen- 
tleman ;  secondly,  to  see  to  it  that  his  sympathies  and 
influence  were  always  on  the  side  of  the  rich,  the  well- 
dressed,  the  respectable  and  the  strong,  and  to  maintain 
a  wide  distinction  between  himself  and  the  poor,  disrep- 
utable and  ill-clad,  and,  thirdly,  to  bear  always,  espe- 
cially when  in  court  or  about  the  government  building, 
an  important  and  wise  demeanor.  He  felt,  indeed,  that 
in  becoming  an  assistant  United  States  district  attorney, 
he  had  become  something  more  than  a  mere  man ;  that 
because  a  paper  had  been  given  him  with  an  eagle 
printed  on  it  and  a  gilt  seal,  a  paper  on  which  his  name 
and  the  words  by  which  he  was  designated  had  been 
written,  he  had  become  something  more  than  a  mere 


230   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

human  being.  The  effect  of  all  this  was  revealed  in  the 
look  with  which  he  now  regarded  Marriott. 

Marriott,  however,  did  not  look  at  Dalrymple;  he 
wished  Dalrymple  to  feel  the  contempt  he  had  for  him, 
and  after  a  moment  he  rose  and  addressed  the  com- 
missioner. 

The  commissioner  straightened  himself  in  his  chair ; 
his  face  was  very  long  and  very  solemn.  He  did  not 
listen  to  what  Marriott  was  saying;  having  conferred 
with  Dalrymple  before  the  hearing  and  read  a  decision 
which  Dalrymple  had  pointed  out  to  him  in  a  calf-bound 
report,  he  was  now  arranging  in  his  mind  the  decision 
he  intended  to  give  presently. 

Marriott,  of  course,  realized  the  hopelessness  of  his 
case,  but  he  did  not  think  it  becoming  to  give  in  so 
easily,  or,  at  least,  without  making  a  speech.  He  began 
to  argue,  but  Wilkison  interrupted  him  and  said : 

"This  whole  question  is  fully  discussed  in  the  Yar- 
borough  case,  where  the  court  held  that  in  a  removal 
proceeding  no  testimony  can  be  presented  in  behalf  of 
the  defense." 

Then  Wilkison  announced  his  decision,  saying  that 
Marriott's  witnesses  could  be  heard  at  the  proper  time 
and  place,  that  is,  on  the  trial,  where  he  said  the  rights 
of  the  defendants  would  be  fully  conserved.  Feeling 
that  his  use  of  this  word  "conserved"  was  happy  and 
appropriate  and  had  a  legal  sound,  he  repeated  it  sev- 
eral times,  and  concluded  by  saying: 

"The  defendants  will  be  remanded  to  the  custody  of 
the  marshal  for  removal." 

The  marshal  and  his  deputies  tapped  the  prisoners 
on  the  shoulders.  Just  then  there  was  a  slight  commo- 
tion ;  Gibbs  had  pushed  by  the  bailiff  and  was  coming 


THE   TURN   OF   THE   BALANCE      231 

forward.  He  came  straight  up  to  the  men.  The  mar- 
shal put  out  a  hand  to  press  him  back,  but  Marriott 
said: 

"Oh,  let  him  talk  to  them  a  minute.   Good  God —  !'* 

The  marshal  glared  at  Marriott,  and  then  gave  way. 

"But  he  wants  to  be  quick  about  it,"  he  threatened. 

Gibbs  leaned  over  Mason's  shoulder. 

"Well,  Joe,"  he  said. 

"I'm  kangarooed,  Dan,"  said  Mason. 

"It  looks  that  way,"  said  Gibbs. 

"Dan,  I  want  you  to  do  something  for  me — I  want 
you  to  send  me  some  tobacco.  You  know  you  can  get 
those  clippings  in  pound  packages;  they  only  cost  a 
quarter." 

Gibbs  looked  hurt. 

"Joe,"  he  said,  "I've  known  you  for  forty  years,  and 
that's  the  only  mean  thing  you  ever  said  to  me." 

"Well,  don't  get  sore,  Dan,"  Mason  said.  "I  knew 
you  would — only — " 

The  marshal  cut  them  short  and  marched  the  pris- 
oners out  of  the  court-room.  Outside  in  the  street  the 
prison-van  was  waiting,  the  van  that  had  been  ordered 
before  the  hearing,  to  take  the  prisoners  to  the  station. 


IX 


It  was  several  days  before  Marriott  saw  Gibbs  again, 
and  then  he  appeared  at  Marriott's  office  with  a  com- 
panion and  leaned  for  an  instant  unsteadily  against  the 
door  he  had  carefully  closed.  Marriott  saw  that  he  was 
changed,  and  that  it  was  the  change  drink  makes  in  a 
man.  Gibbs  sank  helplessly  into  a  chair,  and  stared  at 
Marriott  blankly.  He  was  not  the  clean,  well-dressed 
man  Marriott  had  beheld  in  him  before.  He  was  un- 
shaven, and  the  stubble  of  his  beard  betrayed  his  age 
by  its  whiteness;  the  pupils  of  his  eyes  were  dilated, 
his  lips  stained  with  tobacco.  His  shoes  were  muddy, 
one  leg  of  his  trousers  was  turned  up ;  and  his  lack  of 
a  collar  seemed  the  final  proof  of  that  moral  disintegra- 
tion he  could  not  now  conceal.  When  he  had  been 
there  a  moment  the  atmosphere  was  saturated  with  the 
odor  of  alcohol. 

"My  friend,  Mr.  McDougall,"  said  Gibbs,  toppling 
unsteadily  in  his  chair,  as  he  waved  one  fat  hand  at 
his  companion,  a  heavy  blond  fellow,  six  feet  tall,  well 
dressed  and  dignified. 

"I've  gone  to  the  bad,'*  said  Gibbs.  Marriott  looked 
at  him  in  silence.    The  fact  needed  no  comment. 

"The  way  those  coppers  jobbed  Mason  was  too  much 
for  me,"  Gibbs  went  on.  "Worst  I  ever  seen.  I  couldn't 
stand  for  it,  it  put  me  to  the  bad." 

"Well,  you  won't  do  him  any  good,  at  that — "  Mc- 
Dougall  began. 

"Aw,  to  hell  with  you!"  said  Gibbs,  waving  Mc- 

232 


THE  TURN   OF   THE   BALANCE      233 

Dougall  aside  with  a  sweep  of  his  arm.  The  movement 
unsettled  him  in  his  chair,  and  he  steadied  himself  by 
digging  his  heels  into  the  rug.  Then  he  drew  a  broken 
cigar  from  his  coat  pocket,  struck  a  match,  and  held  it 
close  to  his  nose ;  it  took  him  a  long  time  to  light  his 
cigar ;  he  puffed  hurriedly,  but  could  not  keep  the  cigar 
in  the  flame;  before  he  finished  he  had  burned  his 
fingers,  and  Marriott  felt  a  pain  as  Gibbs  shook  the 
match  to  the  floor. 

"He  hasn't  touched  a  drop  for  five  years,"  said  Mc- 
Dougall  indulgently.  "But  when  they  kangarooed 
Mason — " 

McDougall  looked  at  Gibbs,  not  in  regret  or  pity, 
nor  with  disapproval,  but  as  one  might  look  at  a  woman 
stricken  with  some  recent  grief.  To  him,  getting  drunk 
seemed  to  be  as  natural  a  way  of  expressing  emotion 
as  weeping  or  wringing  the  hands.  Marriott  gazed  on 
the  squalid  little  tragedy  of  a  long  friendship,  gazed  a 
moment,  then  turned  away,  and  looked  out  of  his 
window.  Above  the  hideous  roofs  he  could  see  the 
topmasts  of  schooners,  and  presently  a  great  white 
propeller  going  down  the  river.  It  was  going  north,  to 
Mackinac,  to  the  Soo,  to  Duluth,  and  the  sight  of  it 
filled  Marriott  with  a  longing  for  the  cold  blue  waters 
and  the  sparkling  air  of  the  north. 

Gibbs  evidently  had  come  to  talk  about  Mason's 
case,  but  when  he  began  to  speak  his  voice  was  lost 
somewhere  in  his  throat ;  his  head  sank,  he  appeared  to 
sink  into  sleep.  McDougall  glanced  at  him  and  laughed. 
Then  he  turned  seriously  to  Marriott. 

"It  was  an  outrage,"  he  said.  "Mason  has  been  right 
here  in  town — I  saw  him  that  day.  He  ought  to  be 
alibied." 


234   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

''Couldn't  you  testify  ?"  asked  Marriott. 

McDougall  looked  at  Marriott  with  suspicion,  and 
hesitated.  But  suddenly  Gibbs,  whom  they  had  sup- 
posed to  be  asleep,  said  impatiently,  without  opening 
his  eyes : 

"Oh,  hell ! — go  on  and  tell  him.  He's  a  right  guy,  I 
tell  you.  He's  wise  to  the  gun."  And  Gibbs  slumbered 
again. 

"Well,"  said  McDougall  with  a  queer  expression, 
"my  business  is  unfortunately  of  such  a  nature  that  it 
can't  stand  much  investigation,  and  I  don't  make  the 
best  witness  in  the  world." 

Gibbs  suddenly  sat  up,  opened  his  eyes,  and  drew  an 
enormous  roll  of  money  from  his  pocket. 

"How  much  do  I  owe  you  ?"  he  asked,  unrolling  the 
bills.  "It  comes  out  of  me,"  he  said.  Marriott  was 
disappointed  in  this  haggling  appeal,  not  for  his  own 
sake,  but  for  Gibbs's;  it  detracted  from  the  romantic 
figure  he  had  idealized  for  the  man,  just  as  Gibbs's  in- 
toxication had  done.  Marriott  hesitated  in  the  usual 
difficulty  of  appraising  professional  services,  but  when, 
presently,  he  rather  uncertainly  fixed  his  fee,  Gibbs 
counted  out  the  amount  and  gave  it  to  him.  Marriott 
took  the  money,  with  a  wonder  as  to  where  it  had  come 
from,  what  its  history  was;  he  imagined  in  a  flash  a 
long  train  of  such  transactions  as  McDougall  must  be 
too  familiar  with,  of  such  deeds  as  had  been  involved  in 
the  hearing  before  the  commissioner,  of  other  transac- 
tions, intricate,  remote,  involved,  confused  in  morals — 
and  he  thrust  the  bills  into  his  pocket. 

"It  comes  out  of  me,"  Gibbs  explained  again. 
"They  hadn't  any  fall  money." 

"Have  you  heard  from  them?"  asked  Marriott,  who 


THE   TURN    OF   THE   BALANCE       235 

did  not  know  what  fall  money  was,  and  wished  to 
change  the  subject. 

"No,"  said  Gibbs,  shaking  his  head.  "I'm  going  out 
to  the  trial.  I'll  take  along  that  newspaper  guy  and 
some  witnesses  for  the  others.  I'll  get  'em  a  mouth- 
piece.   Maybe  we  can  spring  'em." 

But,  as  Marriott  learned  several  days  later,  Gibbs 
could  not  spring  them.  He  went  to  the  trial  with  an 
entourage  of  miserable  witnesses,  but  he  did  not  take 
Wales,  for  Wales's  newspaper  would  not  give  him 
leave  of  absence,  and  there  was  no  process  to  compel 
his  attendance.  But  Kouka  and  Quinn  went,  and  they 
gave  Gibbs  such  a  reputation  that  his  testimony  was 
impeached.  He  could  not,  of  course,  take  Dean.  Dean's 
business,  like  McDougall's,  was  unfortunately  of  such 
a  nature  that  it  did  not  stand  investigation,  and  he  did 
not  make  the  best  witness  in  the  world.  Mason  and 
Dillon  and  Mandell  and  Squeak  were  sentenced  to 
the  penitentiary  at  Fort  Leavenworth  for  five  years. 
At  about  the  same  time  Archie  Koerner  pleaded  guilty 
to  stealing  the  revolver  and  was  sentenced  to  prison  for 
a  year. 

Marriott  left  at  last  for  his  vacation,  but  he  could 
not  forget  Mason  taking  his  unjust  fate  so  calmly  and 
philosophically.  He  had  great  pity  for  him,  just  as  he 
had  for  Archie,  though  one  was  innocent  and  the  other 
guilty.  He  had  pity  for  Dillon,  too,  and,  yes,  for  Man- 
dell and  Squeak.  He  thought  of  it  all,  trying  to  find 
some  solution,  but  there  was  no  solution.  It  was  but 
one  more  knot  in  the  tangle  of  injustice  man  has  made 
of  his  attempts  to  do  justice;  a  tangle  that  Marriott 
could  not  unravel,  nor  any  one,  then  or  ever. 


Like  most  of  the  great  houses  along  Claybourne 
Avenue,  the  dwelling  of  the  Wards  wore  an  air  of 
loneliness  and  desolation  all  that  summer.  With  Mrs. 
Ward  and  Elizabeth  in  Europe,  the  reason  for  main- 
taining the  establishment  ceased  to  be;  and  the  serv- 
ants were  given  holidays.  Barker  was  about  for  a 
while  each  day  looking  after  things,  and  Gusta  came 
to  set  the  house  in  order.  But  these  transient  pres- 
ences could  not  give  the  place  its  wonted  life;  the 
curtains  were  down,  the  furniture  stood  about  in  linen 
covers,  the  pictures  were  draped  in  white  cloth.  At 
evening  a  light  showed  in  the  library,  where  Ward  sat 
alone,  smoking,  trying  to  read,  and,  as  midnight  drew 
on,  starting  now  and  then  at  the  strange,  unaccount- 
able sounds  that  are  a  part  of  the  phenomena  of  the 
stillness  of  an  empty  house.  He  would  look  up  from 
his  book,  listen,  wait,  sigh,  listen  again,  finally  give  up, 
go  to  bed,  worry  a  while,  fall  asleep,  be  glad  when 
morning  came  and  he  could  lose  himself  for  another 
day  in  work.  Dick  never  came  in  till  long  after  mid- 
night, and  Ward  seldom  saw  him,  save  on  those  few 
mornings  when  the  boy  was  up  early  enough  to  take 
breakfast  with  him  at  the  club.  Such  mornings  made 
the  whole  day  happy  for  Ward. 

But  the  few  hours  she  spent  each  day  In  the  empty 
house  were  happy  hours  for  Gusta  Koerner.  She  was 
not,  of  course,  a  girl  in  whom  feeling  could  become 

236 


THE   TURN   OF  THE   BALANCE      237 

thought,  or  sensation  find  the  relief  of  expression ;  she 
belonged  to  the  class  that  because  it  is  dumb  seems  not 
to  suffer,  but  she  had  a  sense  of  change  in  the  atmos- 
phere. She  missed  Elizabeth,  she  missed  the  others, 
she  missed  the  familiar  figures  that  once  had  made  the 
place  all  it  had  been  to  her.  But  she  loved  it,  never- 
theless, and  if  it  seemed  to  hold  no  new  experiences  for 
her,  there  were  old  experiences  to  be  lived  over  again. 

At  first  the  loneliness  and  the  emptiness  frightened 
her,  but  she  grew  accustomed;  she  no  longer  started 
at  the  mysterious  creakings  and  tappings  in  the  unten- 
anted rooms,  and  each  morning,  after  her  work  was 
done,  she  lingered,  and  wandered  idly  about,  looked  at 
herself  in  the  mirrors,  gazed  out  of  the  windows  into 
Claybourne  Avenue,  sometimes  peeped  into  the  books 
she  could  so  little  understand. 

Occasionally  she  would  have  chats  with  Barker,  but 
she  did  not  often  see  him ;  he  was  always  busy  in  the 
stables.  Ward  and  Dick  were  gone  before  she  got 
there.  But  the  peace  and  quiet  of  the  deserted  man- 
sion were  grateful,  and  Gusta  found  there  a  sense  of 
rest  and  escape  that  for  a  long  time  she  had  not  known. 
She  found  this  sense  of  escape  all  the  more  grateful 
after  Archie's  trouble.  He  had  not  been  at  home  in  a 
long  time,  and  they  had  heard  nothing  of  him ;  then, 
one  evening  she  learned  of  his  latest  trouble  in  those 
avid  chroniclers  of  trouble,  the  newspapers.  Her  fa- 
ther, who  would  not  permit  the  mention  of  his  son's 
name,  nevertheless  plainly  had  him  on  his  mind,  for  he 
grew  more  than  ever  gloomy,  morose  and  irritable. 
And  then,  to  make  matters  worse,  one  Saturday  even- 
ing Charlie  Peltzer  threw  it  up  to  Gusta,  and  they 
parted  in  anger.    On  Sunday  afternoon  she  went  to 


538   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

see  Archie  at  the  jail,  and  stayed  so  late  that  it  was 
twilight  before  she  got  to  the  Wards'.  She  had  never 
had  the  blues  so  badly  before ;  her  quarrel  with  Peltzer, 
her  father's  scolding,  her  mother's  sighs  and  furtive 
tears,  her  own  visit  to  the  prison,  all  combined  to  de- 
press her,  and  now,  in  the  late  and  lonesome  Sunday 
afternoon  she  did  her  work  hurriedly,  and  was  just 
about  to  let  herself  out  of  the  door  when  it  opened  sud- 
denly, and  Dick  Ward,  bolting  in,  ran  directly  against 
her. 

"Hello!    Beg  pardon — is  that  you,'Gusta?'*  he  said. 
"Oh !"  she  exclaimed,  leaning  against  the  wall,  "you 
scared  me  !'* 
Dick  laughed. 

"Well,  that's  too  bad ;  I  had  no  idea,"  he  said. 
She  had  raised  her  clasped  hands  to  her  chin,  and 
still  kept  the  shrinking  attitude  of  her  fright.     Dick 
looked  at  her,  prettier  than  ever  in  her  sudden  alarm, 
and  on  an  impulse  he  seized  her  hands. 

"Don't  be  scared,"  he  said.  "I  wouldn't  frighten 
you  for  the  world." 

She  was  overwhelmed  with  weakness  and  confusion. 
She  shrank  against  the  wall  and  turned  her  head  aside ; 
her  heart  was  beating  rapidly. 

"I — I'm  late  to-day,"  she  said.  "I  ought  to  have 
been  here  this  morning." 

"I'm  glad  you  weren't,"  said  Dick,  looking  at  her 
with  glowing  eyes. 

"I  must  hurry" — she  tried  to  slip  away.  "I — must 
be  going  home,  it's  getting  late ;  you — you  must  let  me 
go." 

She  scarcely  knew  what  she  was  saying;  she  spoke 


THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE      230 

with  averted  face,  her  cheeks  hot  and  flaming.  He 
gazed  at  her  steadily  a  moment ;  then  he  said : 

"Never  mind.  Til  take  you  home  in  my  machine. 
May  I?" 

She  looked  at  him  in  wonderment.  What  did  he 
mean  ?    Was  he  in  earnest  ? 

"May  I?"  he  pressed  her  hands  for  emphasis,  and 
gazed  into  her  eyes  irresistibly. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "if  you'll — let  me — go  now." 

Suddenly  he  kissed  her  on  the  lips;  there  was  a 
rustle,  a  struggle,  he  kissed  her  again,  then  released 
her,  left  her  trembling  there  in  the  hall,  and  bounded 
up  the  stairs. 

"Wait  a  minute!"  he  called.  "I  came  home  to  get 
something.    You'll  wait?" 

Gusta  was  dazed,  her  mind  was  in  a  whirl,  she  felt 
utterly  powerless ;  but  instinctively  she  slipped  through 
the  door  and  out  on  to  the  veranda.  The  air  reassured 
and  restored  her.  She  felt  that  she  should  run  away, 
and  yet,  there  was  Dick's  automobile  in  the  driveway ; 
she  had  never  been  in  an  automobile,  and —  She 
thought  of  Charlie  Peltzer — well,  it  would  serve  him 
right.  And  then,  before  she  could  decide,  Dick  was 
beside  her. 

"Jump  in,"  he  said,  glancing  up  and  down  the  ave- 
nue, now  dusky  in  the  twilight.  They  went  swiftly 
away  in  the  automobile,  but  they  did  not  go  straight 
to  Bolt  Street — they  took  a  long,  roundabout  course 
that  ended,  after  all,  too  suddenly.  The  night  was 
warm  and  Gusta  was  lifted  above  all  her  cares;  she 
had  a  sensation  as  of  flying  through  the  soft  air.  Dick 
stopped  the  machine  half  a  block  from  the  house,  and 


240   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

Gusta  got  out,  excited  from  her  swift,  reckless  ride. 
But,  troubled  as  she  was,  she  felt  that  she  ought  to 
thank  Dick.    He  only  laughed  and  said : 

"We'll  go  again  for  a  longer  ride.  What  do  you 
say  to  to-morrow  night?" 

She  hesitated,  tried  to  decide  against  him,  and  be- 
fore she  could  decide,  consented. 

"Don't  forget,"  he  said,  "to-morrow  evening."  He 
leaned  over  and  whispered  to  her.  He  was  shoving  a 
lever  forward  and  the  automobile  was  starting. 

"Don't  forget,"  he  said,  and  then  he  was  gone  and 
Gusta  stood  looking  at  the  vanishing  lights  of  the  ma- 
chine. Just  then  Charlie  Peltzer  stepped  out  of  the 
shadows. 

"So!"  he  said,  looking  angrily  into  her  face.  "So 
that's  it,  is  it  ?    Oh — I  saw  you !" 

"Go  away !"  she  said. 

He  snatched  at  her,  caught  her  by  the  wrist. 

"Go  away,  is  it  ?"  he  exclaimed  fiercely.  "I've  caught 
you  this  time !" 

"Let  me  alone !" 

"Yes,  I  will !  Oh,  yes,  I'll  let  you  alone !  And  him, 
too;  I'll  fix  him!" 

"Let  me  go,  I  tell  you !"  she  cried,  trying  to  escape. 
"Let  me  go !"  She  succeeded  presently  in  wrenching 
her  wrist  out  of  his  grasp.  "You  hurt  me!"  She 
clasped  the  wrist  he  had  almost  crushed.  "I  hate  you ! 
I  don't  want  anything  more  to  do  with  you !" 

She  left  him  standing  there  in  the  gloom.  She  hur- 
ried on ;  it  was  but  a  few  steps  to  the  door. 

"Gusta!"  he  called.    "Gusta!    Wait!" 

But  she  hurried  on. 

"Gusta !    Wait  a  minute  I" 


THE   TURN   OF  THE   BALANCE      241 

SHe  Hesitated.  There  was  something  appealing  in 
his  voice. 

"Oh,  Gusta !"  Ke  repeated.    "Won't  you  wait?" 

She  felt  that  he  was  coming  after  her.  Then  some- 
thing, she  knew  not  what,  got  into  her,  she  felt  ugly 
and  hateful,  and  hardened  her  heart.  She  cast  a  glance 
back  over  her  shoulder  and  had  a  glimpse  of  Peltzer's 
face,  a  pale,  troubled  blur  in  the  darkness.  She  ran 
into  the  house,  utterly  miserable  and  sick  at  heart. 

Gusta  could  not  thereafter  escape  this  misery ;  it  was 
with  her  all  the  time,  and  her  only  respite  was  found 
In  the  joy  that  came  to  her  at  evening,  when  regularly, 
at  the  same  hour,  under  the  same  tree,  at  the  same  dark 
spot  in  Congress  Street,  she  met  Dick  Ward.  And  so 
it  began  between  them. 


XI 


The  way  from  the  station  to  the  penitentiary  was 
long,  but  Sheriff  Bentley,  being  a  man  of  small  econo- 
mies, had  decided  to  walk,  and  after  the  long  journey 
in  the  smoking-car,  Archie  had  been  glad  to  stretch  his 
legs.  The  sun  lay  hot  on  the  capital  city ;  it  was  nearly 
noon,  and  workmen,  tired  from  their  morning's  toil, 
were  thinking  now  of  dinner-buckets  and  pipes  in  the 
shade.  They  glanced  at  Archie  and  the  sheriff  as  they 
passed,  but  with  small  interest.  They  saw  such  sights 
every  day  and  had  long  ago  grown  used  to  them,  as 
the  world  had;  besides,  they  had  no  way  of  telling 
which  was  the  criminal  and  which  the  custodian. 

Archie  walked  rapidly  along,  his  head  down,  and  a 
little  careless  smile  on  his  face,  chatting  with  the 
sheriff.  On  the  way  to  the  capital,  Bentley  had  given 
him  cigars,  let  him  read  the  newspapers,  and  told  him 
a  number  of  vulgar  stories.  He  was  laughing  then  at 
one;  the  sheriff  had  leaned  over  to  tell  him  the  point 
of  it,  though  he  had  difficulty  in  doing  so,  because  he 
could  not  repress  his  own  mirth.  They  were  passing 
under  a  viaduct  on  which  a  railroad  ran  over  the  street. 
A  switch-engine  was  going  slowly  along,  and  the  fire- 
man leaned  out  of  the  cab  window.  He  wore,  oddly 
enough,  a  battered  old  silk  hat ;  he  wore  it  in  some  hu- 
morous conceit  that  caricatured  the  grandeur  and  dig- 
nity the  hat  in  its  day  had  given  some  other  man,  whose 
face  was  not  begrimed  as  was  the  comical  face  of  this 

242 


THE   TURN   OF   THE   BALANCE      243 

fireman,  whose  hands  were  not  calloused  as  was  the 
hand  that  slowly,  almost  automatically,  pulled  the  bell- 
cord.  That  old  plug  hat  gave  the  fireman  unlimited 
amusement  and  consolation,  as  he  thrust  it  from  his 
cab  window  while  he  rode  up  and  down  the  railroad 
yards.  Archie  looked  up  and  caught  the  fireman's  eye ; 
the  fireman  winked  drolly,  confidentially,  and  waved 
his  free  arm  with  a  graceful,  abandoned  gesture  that 
conveyed  a  salutation  of  brotherliness  and  comrade- 
ship ;  Archie  smiled  and  waved  his  free  arm  in  recogni- 
tion. 

And  then  they  stepped  out  of  the  shade  of  the  via- 
duct into  the  sun  again,  and  Archie's  smile  went  sud- 
denly from  his  face.  They  were  at  the  penitentiary. 
The  long  wall  stretched  away,  lifting  its  gray  old 
stones  twelve  feet  above  their  heads.  Along  its  coping 
of  broad  overhanging  flags  was  an  iron  railing,  com- 
ing to  the  middle  of  a  man,  and  at  every  corner,  and 
here  and  there  along  the  wall,  were  the  sentry-boxes, 
black  and  weather-beaten,  and  sinister  because  no  sen- 
try was  anywhere  in  sight.  Archie  looked,  and  he  did 
not  hear  the  denouement  of  the  sheriff's  story,  which, 
after  all,  was  just  as  well. 

Midway  of  the  block  the  wall  jutted  in  abruptly  and 
joined  itself  to  a  long  building  of  gray  stone,  with 
three  tiers  of  barred  windows,  but  an  ivy  vine  had 
climbed  over  the  stones  and  hidden  the  bars  as  much 
as  it  could.  A  second  building  lifted  its  Gothic  towers 
above  the  center  of  the  grim  facade,  and  beyond  was 
another  building  like  the  first,  wherein  the  motive  of 
iron  bars  was  repeated;  then  the  climbing  ivy  and  the 
gray  wall  again,  stretching  away  until  it  narrowed  in 
the   perspective.     Before   the   central   building   were 


'544      THE   TURN   OF  THE   BALANCE 

green  lawns  and  flower-beds,  delightful  to  the  eyes  of 
the  warden's  family,  whose  quarters  looked  on  the  free 
world  outside ;  delightful,  too,  to  the  eyes  of  the  legis- 
lative committees  and  distinguished  visitors  who  came 
to  preach  and  give  advice  to  the  men  within  the  walls, 
who  never  saw  the  flowers. 

Archie  and  the  sheriff  turned  into  the  portico.  In 
the  shade,  several  men  were  lounging  about.  They 
wore  the  gray  prison  garb,  but  their  clothes  had  some- 
how the  effect  of  uniforms;  they  were  clean,  neatly 
brushed,  and  well  fitted.  They  glanced  up  as  Archie 
and  the  sheriff  entered,  and  one  of  them  sprang  to  his 
feet.  On  his  cap  Archie  saw  the  words,  "Warden's 
Runner."  He  was  young,  with  a  bright  though  pale 
face,  and  he  stepped  forward  expectantly,  thinking  of 
a  tip.  He  was  about  to  speak,  but  suddenly  his  face 
fell,  and  he  did  not  say  what  had  been  on  his  lips.  He 
uttered,  instead,  a  short,  mistaken, 

"Oh!" 

The  sheriff  laughed,  and  then  with  the  knowledge 
and  familiarity  men  love  so  much  to  display,  he  went 
on: 

"Thought  we  wanted  to  see  the  prison,  eh?  Well, 
IVe  seen  it,  and  the  boy  here'll  see  more'n  he  wants." 

The  warden's  runner  smiled  perfunctorily  and  was 
about  to  turn  away,  when  Bentley  spoke  again : 

"How  long  you  in  for  ?"  he  asked. 

"Life,"  said  the  youth,  and  then  went  back  to  his 
bench.  He  did  not  look  up  again,  though  Archie 
glanced  back  at  him  over  his  shoulder. 

"Trusties,"  Bentley  explained.  "They've  got  a 
snap." 

In  the  office,  where  many  clerks  were  busy,  they 


THE  TURN   OF  THE   BALANCE      245 

waited ;  presently  a  sallow  young  man  came  out  from 
behind  a  railing.  The  sheriff  unlocked  his  handcuffs 
and  blew  on  the  red  bracelet  the  steel  had  left  about 
his  wrist. 

"Hot  day,"  said  the  sheriff,  wiping  his  brow.  The 
sallow  clerk,  on  whom  the  official  air  sat  heavily,  ig- 
nored this  and  said : 

"Let's  have  your  papers." 

He  looked  over  the  commitments  with  a  critical 
legal  scowl  that  seemed  to  pass  finally  on  all  that  the 
courts  had  done,  and  signaled  to  a  receiving  guard. 

"Good-by,  Archie."  Bentley  held  out  his  hand. 

"Good-by,"  said  Archie. 

"Come  on,"  said  the  receiving  guard,  tossing  his 
long  club  to  his  shoulder  in  a  military  way.  The  great 
steel  door  in  the  guard-room  swung  open;  the  guard 
sitting  lazily  in  a  worn  chair  at  the  double  inner  gates 
threw  back  the  lever,  and  the  receiving  guard  and 
Archie  entered  the  yard. 

It  was  a  large  quadrangle,  surrounded  by  the  ugly 
prison  houses,  with  the  chapel  and  the  administration 
building  in  the  center.  Archie  glanced  about,  and  pres- 
ently he  discerned  in  the  openings  between  the  buildings 
companies  of  men,  standing  at  ease.  A  whistle  blew 
heavily,  the  companies  came  to  attention,  and  then  be- 
gan to  march  across  the  yard.  They  marched  in  sets  of 
twos,  with  a  military  scrape  and  shuffle,  halted  now  and 
then  to  dress  their  intervals,  marked  time,  then  went 
on,  massed  together  in  the  lock-step.  As  they  passed, 
the  men  looked  at  Archie,  some  of  them  with  strange 
smiles.  But  Archie  knew  none  of  them ;  not  Delaney, 
with  the  white  hair;  not  the  Pole,  who  had  been  con- 
victed of  arson ;  not  the  Kid,  nor  old  Deacon  Sammy, 


246   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE  . 

who  still  wore  his  gold-rimmed  glasses,  nor  Harry 
Graves.  Their  identity  was  submerged,  like  that  of  all 
the  convicts  in  that  prison,  like  that  of  all  the  forgotten 
prisoners  in  the  world.  The  men  marched  by,  com- 
pany after  company,  until  enough  to  make  a  regiment, 
two  regiments,  had  passed  them.  A  guard  led  Archie 
across  the  yard  to  the  administration  building.  As 
they  entered,  a  long,  lean  man,  whose  lank  legs 
stretched  from  his  easy  chair  half-way  across  the 
room,  it  seemed,  to  cock  their  heels  on  a  desk,  turned 
and  looked  at  them.  He  was  smoking  a  cigar  very 
slowly,  and  he  lifted  his  eyeUds  heavily.  His  eyes 
were  pale  blue — for  some  reason  Archie  shuddered. 

"Here's  a  fresh  fish,  Deputy,"  said  the  guard. 

The  deputy  warden  of  the  prison.  Ball,  flecked  the 
ashes  from  his  cigar. 

"Back  again,  eh  ?"  he  said. 

Archie  stared,  and  then  he  said : 

"I've  never  stirred  before." 

"The  hell  you  haven't,"  said  the  deputy.  "The  bull 
con  don't  go  in  this  dump  !  I  know  you  all !"  The  re- 
ceiving guard  looked  Archie  over,  trying  to  recall  him. 

The  deputy  warden  let  his  heavy  feet  fall  to  the 
floor,  leaned  forward,  took  a  cane  from  his  desk,  got 
up,  hooked  the  cane  into  the  awkward  angle  of  his  left 
elbow,  and  shambled  into  the  rear  office,  his  long  legs 
unhinging  with  a  strange  suggestion  of  the  lock-step 
he  was  so  proud  of  being  able  to  retain  in  the  prison 
by  an  evasion  of  the  law.  A  convict  clerk  heaved  an 
enormous  record  on  to  his  high  desk,  then  in  a  mechan- 
ical way  he  dipped  a  pen  into  the  ink,  and  stood  wait- 
ing. 

"What's  your  name  ?"  asked  the  deputy. 


THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE      24; 

Archie  told  him. 

"Age?" 

"Twenty-three.'' 

"Father  and  mother  living  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Who  shall  we  notify  if  you  die  while  you're  with 
us?" 

Archie  started ;  and  the  deputy  laughed. 

"Notify  them." 

"Ever  convicted  before?  No?  Why,  Koerner,  you 
really  must  not  lie  to  me  like  that !" 

When  the  statistical  questions  were  finished  the 
deputy  said : 

"Now,  Koerner,  you  got  a  stretch  in  the  sentence; 
you'll  gain  a  month's  good  time  if  you  behave  your- 
self ;  don't  talk ;  be  respectful  to  your  superiors ;  mind 
the  rules ;  you  can  write  one  letter  a  month,  have  vis- 
itors once  a  month,  receive  all  letters  of  proper  char- 
acter addressed  to  you.  Your  number  is  48963.  Take 
him  and  frisk  him,  Jimmy." 

The  deputy  warden  hooked  his  cane  over  his  arm 
and  shambled  out.  Archie  watched  him,  strangely 
fascinated.  Then  the  guard  touched  him  on  the  shoul- 
der, tossed  a  bundle  of  old  clothing  over  his  arm,  and 
said: 

"This  way." 

They  made  him  bathe,  then  the  barber  shaved  him, 
and  he  donned  his  prison  clothes,  which  were  of  gray 
like  those  worn  by  the  trusties  he  had  seen  at  the  gate 
of  the  prison.  But  the  clothes  did  not  fit  him;  the 
trousers  were  too  tight  at  the  waist  and  far  too  long, 
and  they  took  a  strange  and  unaccountable  shape  on 
him,  the  shape,  indeed,  of  the  wasted  figure  of  an  old 


248      THE   TURN   OF.  THE   BALANCE 

convict  who  had  died  of  consumption  in  the  hospital 
two  days  before. 

The  guard  took  Arcliie  to  the  dining-room,  deserted 
now,  and  he  sat  down  at  one  of  the  long  tables  and  ate 
his  watery  soup  and  drank  the  coffee  made  of  toasted 
bread — his  first  taste  of  the  ''boot-leg"  he  had  heard 
his  late  companions  talk  about. 

And  then  the  idle  house,  stark  and  gloomy,  with  si- 
lent convicts  ranged  around  the  wall.  On  an  elevated 
chair  at  one  end,  where  he  might  have  the  scant  light 
that  fell  through  the  one  high  window,  an  old  convict, 
who  once  had  been  a  preacher,  read  aloud.  He  read 
as  if  he  enjoyed  the  sound  of  his  own  voice,  but  few  of 
the  prisoners  listened.  They  sat  there  stolidly,  with 
heavy,  hardened  faces.  Some  dozed,  others  whispered, 
others,  whom  the  prison  had  almost  bereft  of  reason, 
simply  stared.  The  idle  house  was  still,  save  for  the 
voice  of  the  reader  and  the  constant  coughing  of  a  con- 
vict in  a  corner.  Archie,  incapable,  like  most  of  them, 
of  concentrated  attention,  sat  and  looked  about.  He 
was  dazed,  the  prison  stupor  was  already  falling  heav- 
ily on  his  mind,  and  he  was  passing  into  that  state  of 
mental  numbness  that  made  the  blank  in  his  life  when 
he  was  in  the  workhouse  with  Mason.  He  thought  of 
Mason  for  a  while,  and  wondered  what  his  fate  and 
that  of  Dillon  had  been ;  he  thought  of  Gusta,  and  of 
his  mother  and  father,  of  Gibbs  and  Curly,  wonder- 
ing about  them  all ;  wondered  about  that  strange  life, 
already  dim  and  incredible,  he  had  so  lately  left  in 
what  to  convicts  is  represented  by  the  word  "outside." 
He  wished  that  he  had  been  taken  with  Mason  and  Dil- 
lon.   Then  he  thought  of  Kouka — thought  of  every- 


THE  TURN   OF  THE   BALANCE      249 

thing  but  the  theft  of  the  revolver,  which  bore  so  small 
a  relation  to  his  real  life. 

The  entrance  of  a  contractor  brought  diversion. 
The  contractor,  McBride,  a  man  with  a  red  face  and 
closely-cropped  white  hair,  smoking  a  cigar  the  aroma 
of  which  was  eagerly  sniffed  in  by  the  convicts,  came 
with  the  receiving  guard.  At  the  guard's  command, 
Archie  stood  up,  and  the  contractor,  narrowing  his 
eyes,  inspected  him  through  the  smoke  of  his  cigar. 
After  a  while  he  nodded  and  said : 

*'He'll  do — looks  to  me  like  he  could  make  bolts. 
Ever  work  at  a  machine  ?"  he  suddenly  asked. 

Archie  shook  his  head. 

"Put  him  on  Bolt  B,"  said  the  contractor ;  "he  can 
learn." 

The  day  ended,  somehow;  the  evening  came,  with 
supper  in  the  low-ceiled,  dim  dining-hall,  then  the  cells. 

"You'll  lock  in  G  6,"  said  the  guard. 

Archie  marched  to  the  cell-house,  where,  inside  the 
brick  shell,  the  cells  rose,  four  tiers  of  them.  The  door 
locked  on  Archie,  and  he  looked  about  the  bare  cell 
where  he  was  to  spend  a  year.  For  an  hour,  certain 
small  privileges  were  allowed;  favored  convicts,  in 
league  with  officials,  peddled  pies  and  small  fruits  at 
enormous  commissions ;  somewhere  a  prisoner  scraped 
a  doleful  fiddle.  Near  by,  a  guard  haggled  with  a  con- 
vict who  worked  in  the  cigar  shop  and  stole  cigars  for 
the  guard  to  sell  on  the  outside.  The  guard,  it  seemed, 
had  recently  raised  his  commission  from  fifty  to  sixty 
per  cent.,  and  the  convict  complained.  But  when  the 
guard  threatened  to  report  him  for  his  theft,  the  con- 
vict gave  in. 


250   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

At  seven  o'clock  the  music  ceased,  and  hall  permits 
expired.  Then  there  was  another  hour  of  the  lights, 
when  some  of  the  convicts  read.  Then,  at  eight,  it 
grew  suddenly  dark  and  still.  Presently  Archie  heard 
the  snores  of  tired  men.  He  could  not  sleep  himself; 
his  pallet  of  straw  was  alive  with  vermin ;  the  stillness 
in  the  great  cell-house  was  awful  and  oppressive ;  once 
in  a  while  he  heard  some  one,  somewhere,  from  a  near- 
by cell,  sigh  heavily.  Now,  he  thought,  he  was  doing 
his  bit  at  last;  "buried,'^  the  gims  called  it.  Finally, 
when  the  hope  had  all  gone  from  his  heart,  he  fell 
asleep. 

The  summer  night  fell,  and  the  prison's  gray  wall 
merged  itself  in  the  blackness ;  but  it  still  shut  off  the 
great  world  outside  from  the  little  world  inside.  The 
guards  came  out  and  paced  the  walls  with  their  rifles, 
halting  now  and  then  with  their  backs  to  the  black 
forms  of  the  cell-houses,  and  looked  out  over  the  city, 
where  the  electric  lights  blazed. 


XII 


Elizabeth  had  gone  abroad  feeling  that  she  might 
escape  the  dissatisfaction  that  possessed  her.  This  dis- 
satisfaction was  so  very  indefinite  that  she  could  not 
dignify  it  as  a  positive  trouble,  but  she  took  it  with  her 
over  Europe  wherever  she  went,  and  she  finally  de- 
cided that  it  would  give  her  no  peace  until  she  took  it 
home  again.  She  could  not  discuss  it  with  her  mother, 
for  Mrs.  Ward  was  impatient  of  discussion.  She  could 
do  no  more  than  feel  Elizabeth's  dissatisfaction,  and 
she  complained  of  it  both  abroad  and  at  home.  She 
told  her  husband  and  her  son  that  Elizabeth  had  prac- 
tically ruined  their  trip,  that  Elizabeth  hadn't  enjoyed 
it  herself,  nor  allowed  her  to  enjoy  it.  Elizabeth,  how- 
ever, if  unable  to  realize  the  sensations  she  had  an- 
ticipated in  their  travels,  gave  her  mother  unexpected 
compensation  by  recalling  and  vivifying  for  her  after 
they  had  returned  in  the  fall,  all  their  foreign  experi- 
ences, so  that  they  enjoyed  them  in  retrospect.  Ward, 
indeed,  said  that  Elizabeth  had  seen  everything  there 
was  to  see  in  Europe.  He  only  laughed  when  Elizabeth 
declared  that,  now  she  was  at  home  again,  she  intended 
to  do  something;  just  what,  she  could  not  determine. 

"Perhaps  I'll  become  a  stenographer  or  a  trained 
nurse." 

"The  idea!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Ward.  "To  talk  like 
that!  You  should  pay  more  attention  to  your  social 
duties." 

251 


2S2      THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

"Why  ?"  demanded  Elizabeth,  looking  at  her  mother 
with  clear,  sober  eyes. 

Mrs.  Ward,  in  her  habitual  avoidance  of  reasons, 
could  not  think  of  one  instantly. 

"You  owe  it  to  your  station,"  she  declared  presently, 
and  then,  as  if  this  were,  after  all,  a  reason,  she  added, 
"that^s  why." 

Dick  showed  all  the  manly  indignation  of  an  elder 
brother. 

"You  don't  know  what  you're  talking  about,  Bess," 
he  said  in  the  husky  voice  he  had  acquired.  He  had 
not  changed;  he  bore  himself  importantly,  wore  a 
scowl,  dressed  extravagantly,  and  always  in  the  ex- 
treme of  the  prevailing  fashion ;  he  seemed  to  have  an 
intuition  in  such  matt^ers;  he  wore  a  new  collar  or  a 
new  kind  of  cravat  two  weeks  in  advance  of  the  other 
young  men  in  town,  and  they  did  not  seem  to  follow 
him  so  much  as  he  seemed  to  anticipate  them.  He 
lunched  at  the  club,  and  Elizabeth  divined  that  he  spent 
large  sums  of  money,  and  yet  he  was  constant  in  his 
work;  he  was  always  at  the  Trust  Company's  office 
early ;  he  did  not  miss  a  single  day.  No,  Dick  had  not 
changed ;  nothing  had  changed,  and  this  thought  only 
increased  Elizabeth's  discontent,  or  vague  uneasiness, 
or  vague  dissatisfaction,  or  whatever  it  was. 

"I  don't  know  what  it  is,"  she  confided  to  Marriott 
the  first  time  she  saw  him.  "I  ought  to  be  of  some  use 
in  the  world,  but  I'm  not — Oh,  don't  say  I  am,"  she 
insisted  when  she  caught  his  expression;  "don't  make 
the  conventional  protest.  It's  just  as  I  told  you  before 
I  went  away,  I'm  useless."  She  glanced  over  the 
drawing-room  in  an  inclusive  condemnation  of  the  lux- 
ury represented  by  the  heavy  furniture,  the  costly  brie- 


THE   TURN   OF.  THE   BALANCE      253 

a-brac,  and  all  that.  Her  face  wore  an  expression  of 
weariness.  She  knew  that  she  had  not  expressed  her- 
self. What  she  was  thinking,  or,  rather,  what  she  was 
feeling  was,  perhaps,  the  disappointment  that  comes 
to  a  spirited,  imaginative,  capable  girl,  who  by  edu- 
cation and  training  has  developed  ambitions  and 
aspirations  toward  a  real,  full,  useful  life,  yet  who  can 
do  nothing  in  the  world  because  the  very  conditions  of 
that  existence  which  give  her  those  advantages  forbid 
it.  Prepared  for  life,  she  is  not  permitted  to  live;  an 
artificial  routine  called  a  "sphere'*  is  all  that  is  allowed 
her ;  she  may  not  realize  her  own  personality,  and,  in 
time,  is  reduced  to  utter  nothingness. 

"By  what  right — "  she  resumed,  but  Marriott  inter- 
rupted her. 

"Don't  take  that  road;  it  will  only  make  you  un- 
happy." 

"Before  I  went  abroad,"  she  went  on,  ignoring  the 
warning,  "I  told  you  that  I  would  do  something  when 
I  came  back — something  to  justify  myself.  That's  sel- 
fish, isn't  it  ?"  She  ended  in  a  laugh.  "Well,  anyway," 
she  resumed,  "I  can  look  up  the  Koerners.  You  see 
the  Koerners?" 

"I  haven't  tried  that  case  yet,"  Marriott  said  with  a 
guilty  expression. 

"How  dreadful  of  you !" 

"Reproach  me  all  you  can,"  he  said.  "I  must  pay 
some  penance.  But,  you  know — I — well,  I  didn't  try 
it  at  the  spring  term  because  Ford  wanted  to  go  to 
Europe,  and  then — well — I'm  going  to  try  it  right 
away — soon." 

The  next  morning,  as  Marriott  walked  down  town, 
he  determined  to  take  up  the  Koemer  case  immedi- 


254   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

ately.  It  was  one  of  those  mild  and  sunny  days  of 
grace  that  Nature  allows  in  the  mellow  autumn,  deal- 
ing them  out  one  by  one  with  a  smile  that  withholds 
promise  for  another,  so  that  each  comes  to  winter- 
dreading  mortals  as  a  rare  surprise.  The  long  walk 
in  the  sun  filled  Marriott  with  a  fine  delight  of  Hfe; 
he  was  pleased  with  himself  because  at  last  he  was  to 
do  a  duty  he  had  long  neglected.  He  sent  for  Koerner, 
and  the  old  man  came  on  a  pair  of  new  yellow  crutches, 
bringing  his  wife  and  his  enormous  pipe. 

''Well,  Mr.  Koerner,"  said  Marriott,  "Fm  glad 
you're  about  again.    How  are  you  getting  along?" 

"Veil,  ve  get  along ;  I  bin  some  goodt  yet,  you  bet.  I 
can  vash — I  sit  up  to  dose  tubs  dere  undt  help  der  oldt 
voman." 

Marriott's  brows  knotted  in  a  perplexity  that  took 
on  the  aspect  of  a  mild  horror.  It  required  some  effort 
for  him  to  realize  this  old  man  sitting  with  a  wash-tub 
between  his  knees ;  the  thought  degraded  the  leonine 
figure.  He  wished  that  Koerner  had  not  told  him,  and 
he  hastened  to  change  the  subject. 

"Your  case  will  come  on  for  trial  now,"  he  said ;  "we 
must  talk  it  over  and  get  our  evidence  in  shape." 

"Dot  bin  a  long  time  alreadty,  dot  trial." 

"Yes,  it  has,"  said  Marriott,  "but  we'll  get  to  it  now 
in  two  weeks.'* 

"Yah,  dot's  vat  you  say." 

He  puffed  at  his  pipe  a  moment,  sending  out  the  thin 
wreaths  of  smoke  in  sharp  little  puffs.  The  strong  face 
lifted  its  noble  mask,  the  white  hair — whiter  than  Mar- 
riott remembered  it  the  last  time — glistening  like  frost. 

"You  vait  anoder  year  and  I  grow  out  anoder  leg, 
maybe,"  Koerner  smoked  on  in  silence.  But  presently 


THE   TURN   OF  THE   BALANCE      255 

the  thin  lips  that  pinched  the  amber  pipe-stem  began 
to  twitch,  the  blue  eyes  twinkled  under  their  shaggy 
white  brows;  his  own  joke  about  his  leg  put  him  in 
good  humor,  and  he  forgot  his  displeasure.  Marriott 
felt  a  supreme  pity  for  the  old  man.  He  marveled  at 
his  patience,  the  patience  everywhere  exhibited  by  the 
voiceless  poor.  There  was  something  stately  in  the  old 
man,  something  dignified  in  the  way  in  which  he  ac- 
cepted calamity  and  joked  it  to  its  face. 

Marriott  found  relief  in  turning  to  the  case.  As  he 
was  looking  for  the  pleadings,  he  said  carelessly : 

''How's  Gusta?" 

And  instantly,  by  a  change  in  the  atmosphere,  he  felt 
that  he  had  made  a  mistake.  Koerner  made  no  reply. 
Marriott  heard  him  exchange  two  or  three  urgent  sen- 
tences with  his  wife,  in  his  harsh,  guttural  German. 
When  Marriott  turned  about,  Koerner  was  smoking  in 
stolid  silence,  his  face  was  stone.  Mrs.  Koerner  cast 
a  timid  glance  at  her  husband,  and,  turning  in  embar- 
rassment from  Marriott,  fluttered  her  shawl  about  her 
arms  and  gazed  out  the  windows.  What  did  it  mean? 
Marriott  wondered. 

"Well,  let's  get  down  to  business,"  he  said.  He 
would  ask  no  more  questions,  at  any  rate.  But  as  he 
was  going  over  the  allegations  of  the  petition  with 
Koerner,  finding  the  usual  trouble  in  initiating  the 
client  into  the  mysteries  of  evidence,  which  are  as  often 
mysteries  to  the  lawyers  and  the  courts  themselves,  he 
w^as  thinking  more  of  Gusta  than  of  the  case.  Poor 
Gusta,  he  thought,  does  the  family  doom  lie  on  her, 
too? 


XIII 

Elizabeth  kept  to  her  purpose  of  dohig  something 
to  justify  her  continuing  in  existence,  as  she  put  it  to 
her  mother,  and  there  was  a  period  of  two  or  three 
weeks  following  a  lecture  by  a  humanitarian  from  Chi- 
cago, when  she  tortured  the  family  by  considering  a 
residence  in  a  social  settlement.  But  Mrs.  Ward  was 
relieved  when  this  purpose  realized  itself  in  a  way  so 
respectable  as  joining  the  Organized  Charities.  The 
Organized  Charities  was  more  than  respectable,  it  was 
eminently  respectable,  and  when  Mrs.  Russell  consent- 
ed to  become  its  president,  it  took  on  a  social  rank  of 
the  highest  authority.  The  work  of  this  organization 
was  but  dimly  understood ;  it  was  incorporated,  and  so 
might  quite  legally  be  said  to  lack  a  soul,  which  gave 
it  the  advantage  of  having  the  personal  equation  ex- 
cluded from  its  dealings  with  the  poor.  Business  men, 
by  subscribing  a  small  sum  might  turn  all  beggars  over 
to  the  Organized  Charities,  and  by  giving  to  the  hun- 
gry, who  asked  for  bread,  the  stone  of  a  blue  ticket, 
secure  immediate  relief  from  the  disturbing  sense  of 
personal  responsibility.  The  poor  who  were  thus  re- 
ferred might  go  to  the  bureau,  file  their  applications,  be 
enrolled  and  indexed  by  the  secretary,  and  have  their 
characters  and  careers  investigated  by  an  agent.  All 
this  was  referred  to  as  organized  relief  work,  and  it 
had  been  so  far  successful  as  to  afford  relief  to  those 
who  were  from  time  to  time  annoyed  by  the  spectacles 

256 


THE  TURN   OF  THE   BALANCE      257 

of  poverty  and  disease  that  haunted  their  homes  and 
places  of  business. 

When  the  Organized  Charities  resumed  in  the  fall 
the  monthly  meetings  that  had  been  discontinued  dur- 
ing the  heated  term,  Elizabeth  was  on  hand.  Mrs. 
Russell  was  in  the  president's  chair,  and  promptly  at 
three  o'clock,  consulting  the  tiny  jeweled  watch  that 
hung  in  the  laces  at  her  bosom,  she  called  the  meeting 
to  order.  After  the  recording  secretary  had  read  the 
minutes  of  the  last  meeting,  held  in  the  spring,  and 
these  had  been  approved,  the  corresponding  secretary 
read  a  report,  and  a  list  of  the  new  members. 
Then  a  young  clergyman,  with  a  pale,  ascetic  face,  and 
a  high,  clerical  waistcoat  against  which  a  large  cross  of 
gold  was  suspended  by  a  cord,  read  his  report  as  treas- 
urer, giving  the  names  of  the  new  members  already  re- 
ported by  the  corresponding  secretary,  but  adding  the 
amount  subscribed  by  each,  the  amount  of  money  in 
the  treasury,  the  amount  expended  in  paying  the  sal- 
aries of  the  clerks,  the  rent  of  the  telephone,  printing, 
postage,  and  so  on.  Then  the  agents  of  the  organiza- 
tion reported  the  number  of  cases  they  had  investi- 
gated, arranging  them  alphabetically,  and  in  the  form 
of  statistics.  Then  the  clerk  reported  the  number  of 
meal  tickets  that  had  been  distributed  and  the  smaller 
number  that  had  been  gastronomically  redeemed.  After 
that  there  were  reports  from  standing  committees, 
then  from  special  committees,  and  when  all  these  had 
been  read,  received  and  approved,  they  were  ordered 
to  be  placed  on  file.  These  preliminaries  occupied 
an  hour,  and  Elizabeth  felt  the  effect  to  be  some- 
what  deadening.  During  the  reading  of  the  reports,  / 
the  members,  of  whom  there  were  about  forty,  mostly 


258   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

women,  had  sat  in  respectful  silence,  decorously  cough- 
ing now  and  then.  When  all  the  reports  had  been  read 
a  woman  rose,  and  addressing  Mrs.  Russell  as  "Ma- 
dame President,"  said  that  she  wished  again  to  move 
that  the  meetings  of  the  society  be  opened  with  prayer. 
At  this  the  faces  of  the  other  members  clouded  with  an 
expression  of  weariness.  The  woman  who  made  the 
motion  spoke  to  it  at  length,  and  with  the  only  zeal 
that  Elizabeth  had  thus  far  observed  in  the  proceed- 
ings. Elizabeth  was  not  long  in  discerning  that  this 
same  woman  had  made  this  proposal  at  former  meet- 
ings ;  she  knew  this  by  the  bored  and  sometimes  angry 
expressions  of  the  other  members.  The  young  curate 
seemed  to  feel  a  kind  of  vicarious  shame  for  the  wom- 
an. When  the  woman  had  finished,  the  matter  was  put 
to  a  vote,  and  all  voted  no,  save  the  woman  who  had 
made  the  proposal,  and  she  voted  "aye"  loudly,  going 
down  to  defeat  in  the  defiance  of  the  unconvinced. 

Then  another  woman  rose  and  said  that  she  had  a 
matter  to  bring  before  the  meeting ;  this  matter  related 
to  a  blind  woman  who  had  called  on  her  and  com- 
plained that  the  Organized  Charities  had  refused  to 
give  her  assistance.  Now  that  the  winter  was  coming 
on,  the  blind  woman  was  filled  with  fear  of  want. 
Elizabeth  had  a  dim  vision  of  the  blind  woman,  even 
from  the  crude  and  inadequate  description;  she  felt  a 
pity  and  a  desire  to  help  her,  and,  at  the  same  time, 
with  that  condemnation  which  needs  no  more  than  ac- 
cusation, a  kind  of  indignation  with  the  Organized 
Charities.  For  the  first  time  she  was  interested  in  the 
proceedings,  and  leaned  forward  to  hear  what  v/as  to 
be  done  with  the  blind  woman.  But  while  the  descrip- 
tion had  been  inadequate  to  Elizabeth,  so  that  her  own 
imagination  had  filled  out  the  portrait,  it  was,  never- 


THE   TURN    OF   THE   BALANCE      259 

theless,  sufficient  for  the  other  members;  a  smile  went 
round,  glances  were  exchanged,  and  the  secretary, 
with  a  calm,  assured  and  superior  expression,  began  to 
turn  over  the  cards  in  her  elaborate  system  of  indexed 
names.  There  was  instantly  a  general  desire  to  speak, 
several  persons  were  on  their  feet  at  once,  saying 
"Madame  President!"  and  Mrs.  Russell  recognized 
one  of  them  with  a  smile  that  propitiated  and  promised 
the  others  in  their  turn.  From  the  experiences  that 
were  then  related,  it  was  apparent  that  this  blind  wom- 
an was  known  to  nearly  all  of  the  charity  workers  in 
the  city ;  all  of  them  spoke  of  her  in  terms  of  dispar- 
agement, which  soon  became  terms  of  impatience. 
One  of  the  ladies  raised  a  laugh  by  declaring  the  blind 
woman  to  be  a  "chronic  case,"  and  then  one  of  the  men 
present,  a  gray-haired  man,  with  a  white  mustache 
stained  yellow  by  tobacco,  rose  and  said  that  he  had  in- 
vestigated the  "case"  and  that  it  was  not  worthy.  This 
man  was  the  representative  of  a  society  which  cared 
for  animals,  such  as  stray  dogs,  and  mistreated  horses, 
and  employed  this  agent  to  investigate  such  cases,  but 
it  seemed  that  occasionally  he  concerned  himself  with 
human  beings.  He  spoke  now  in  a  professional  and 
authoritative  manner,  and  when  he  declared  that  the 
case  was  not  worthy,  the  blind  woman,  or  the  blind 
case,  as  it  was  considered,  was  disposed  of.  Some  one 
said  that  she  should  be  sent  to  the  poorhouse. 

When  the  blind  woman  had  been  consigned,  so  far 
as  the  bureau  was  concerned,  to  the  poorhouse,  Mrs. 
Russell  said  in  her  soft  voice : 

"Is  there  any  unfinished  business?" 

Elizabeth,  who  was  tired  and  bored,  felt  a  sudden 
hope  that  this  was  the  end,  and  she  started  up  hope- 
fully; but  she  found  in  Mrs,  Russeirs  beautiful  face  a 


26o   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

quick  smile  of  sympathy  and  patience.  And  Elizabeth 
was  ashamed ;  she  was  sorry  she  had  let  Mrs.  Russell 
see  that  she  was  weary  of  all  this,  and  she  felt  a  new 
dissatisfaction  with  herself.  She  told  herself  that  she 
was  utterly  fickle  and  hopeless ;  she  had  entered  upon 
this  charity  work  with  such  enthusiasm,  and  here  she 
was  already  tiring  of  it  at  the  first  meeting !  Elizabeth 
looked  at  Mrs.  Russell,  and  for  a  moment  envied  her 
her  dignity  and  her  tact  and  her  patience,  all  of  which 
must  have  come  from  her  innate  gentleness  and  kind- 
ness. The  face  of  this  woman,  who  presided  so  grace- 
fully over  this  long,  wearying  session,  was  marked 
with  lines  of  character,  her  brow  was  serene  and  calm 
under  the  perfectly  white  hair  massed  above  it.  The 
eyes  were  large,  and  they  were  sad,  just  as  the  mouth 
was  sad,  but  there  dwelt  in  the  eyes  always  that  same 
kindness  and  gentleness,  that  patience  and  considera- 
tion that  gave  Mrs.  Russell  her  real  distinction,  her 
real  indisputable  claim  to  superiority.  Elizabeth  forgot 
her  impatience  and  her  weariness  in  a  sudden  specula- 
tion as  to  the  cause  of  the  sadness  that  lay  somewhere 
in  Mrs.  Russell's  life.  She  had  known  ease  and  luxury 
always;  she  had  been  spared  all  contact  with  that 
world  which  Elizabeth  was  just  beginning  to  dis- 
cover beyond  the  confines  of  her  own  narrow  and  self- 
ish world.  Mrs.  Russell  surely  never  had  known  the 
physical  hunger  which  now  and  then  was  at  least  offi- 
cially recognized  in  this  room  where  the  bureau  met ; 
could  there  be  a  hunger  of  the  soul  which  gave  this 
look  to  the  human  face?  Elizabeth  Ward  had  not  yet 
realized  this  hunger,  she  had  not  yet  come  into  the  full 
consciousness  of  life,  and  so  it  was  that  just  at  a  mo- 
ment, when  she  seemed  very  near  to  its  recognition, 
she  lost  herself  in  the  luxury  of  romanticizing  some 


THE   TURN   OF   THE   BALANCE      261 

sorrow  in  Mrs.  Russell's  life,  some  sorrow  kept  hid- 
den from  the  world.  Elizabeth  thought  she  saw  this 
sorrow  in  the  faint  smile  that  touched  Mrs.  Russell's 
lips  just  then,  as  she  gave  a  parliamentary  recognition 
to  another  woman — a  heavy,  obtrusive  woman  who 
was  rising  to  say : 

"Madame  President." 

Elizabeth  had  hoped  that  there  would  be  no  unfin- 
ished business  for  the  society  to  transact,  but  she  had 
not  learned  that  there  was  one  piece  of  business  which 
was  always  unfinished,  and  that  was  the  question  of 
raising  funds.  And  this  subject  had  no  interest  for 
Elizabeth;  the  question  of  money  was  one  she  could 
not  grasp.  It  afifected  her  as  statistics  did ;  it  had  ab- 
solutely no  meaning  for  her;  and  now,  when  she  was 
forced  to  pay  attention  to  the  heavy,  obtrusive  woman, 
because  her  voice  was  so  strong  and  her  tone  so  com- 
manding, she  was  conscious  only  of  the  fact  that  she 
did  not  like  this  woman;  somehow  the  woman  over- 
powered Elizabeth  by  mere  physical  proportions.  But 
gradually  it  dawned  on  Elizabeth  that  the  discussion 
was  turning  on  a  charity  ball,  and  she  grew  interested 
at  once,  for  she  felt  herself  on  the  brink  of  solving  the 
old  mystery  of  where  charity  balls  originate.  She 
had  attended  many  of  them,  but  it  had  never  occurred 
to  her  that  some  one  must  have  organized  and  pro- 
moted them;  she  had  found  them  in  her  world  as  an 
institution,  like  calls,  like  receptions,  like  the  church. 
But  now  a  debate  was  on ;  the  little  woman,  who  had 
urged  the  society  to  open  its  sessions  with  prayer,  was 
opposing  the  ball,  and  Elizabeth  forgot  Mrs.  Russell's 
secret  romance  in  her  interest  in  the  warmth  with 
3^^hich  the  project  of  a  charity  ball  was  being  discussed. 


XIV 

The  debate  over  the  charity  ball  raged  until  twilight, 
and  it  served  for  unfinished  business  at  two  special 
sessions.  The  spare  little  woman  who  had  proposed 
that  the  meetings  be  opened  with  prayer  led  the  oppo- 
sition to  the  charity  ball,  and,  summoning  all  her  mili- 
tant religion  to  her  aid,  succeeded  in  arraying  most  of 
the  evangelical  churches  against  it.  In  two  weeks  the 
controversy  was  in  the  newspapers,  and  when  it  had 
waged  for  a  month,  and  both  parties  were  exhausted, 
they  compromised  on  a  charity  bazaar. 

The  dispute  had  been  distressing  to  Mrs.  Russell, 
whose  nature  was  too  sensitive  to  take  the  relish  most 
of  the  others  seemed  to  find  in  the  controversy,  and 
it  was  through  her  tact  that  peace  was  finally  estab- 
lished. Even  after  the  bazaar  was  decided  on,  the 
peace  was  threatened  by  dissension  as  to  where  the 
bazaar  should  be  held.  The  more  sophisticated  and 
worldly-minded  favored  the  Majestic  Theater,  and  this 
brought  the  spare  little  woman  to  her  feet  again,  trem- 
bling with  moral  indignation.  To  her  the  idea  of  a 
bazaar  in  a  theater  was  even  more  sacrilegious  than  a 
ball.  But  Mrs.  Russell  saved  the  day  by  a  final  sacri- 
fice— she  oflPered  her  residence  for  the  bazaar. 

"It  was  beautiful  in  you !"  Elizabeth  exclaimed  as 
they  drove  homeward  together  in  the  graying  after- 
noon of  the  November  day.     "To  think  of  throwing 

262 


!  THE   TURN   OF   THE   BALANCE      263 

your  house  open  for  a  week — ^and  having  the  whole 
town  tramp  over  the  rugs !" 

"Oh,  I'll  lay  the  floors  in  canvas,"  said  Mrs.  Russell, 
with  a  little  laugh  she  could  not  keep  from  ending  in  a 
sigh. 

"You'll  find  it  no  light  matter,"  said  Elizabeth ;  "this 
turning  your  house  inside  out.  Of  course,  the  fact  that 
it  is  your  house  will  draw  all  the  curious  and  vulgar 
in  town." 

This  was  not  exactly  reassuring  and  Elizabeth  felt 
as  much  the  moment  she  had  said  it. 

"You  must  help  me,  dear!"  Mrs.  Russell  said, 
squeezing  Elizabeth's  hand  in  a  kind  of  desperation. 
Elizabeth  had  never  known  her  to  be  in  any  wise 
demonstrative,  and  her  own  sympathetic  nature  re- 
sponded immediately. 

"Indeed  I  shall !"  she  said. 

The  bazaar  was  to  be  held  the  week  before  Christ- 
mas, and  the  ladies  forgot  their  differences  to  unite  in 
one  of  those  tremendous  and  exhausting  labors  they 
seem  ever  ready  to  undertake,  though  the  end  is  al- 
ways so  disproportionate  to  the  sacrifice  and  toil  that 
somehow  bring  it  to  pass.  Elizabeth  was  almost  con- 
stantly with  Mrs.  Russell;  they  were  working  early 
and  late.  Mrs.  Russell  appointed  her  on  the  commit- 
tee on  arrangements,  and  the  committee  held  almost 
daily  meetings  at  the  Charities.  And  here  Elizabeth  at 
last  found  an  opportunity  of  seeing  some  of  the  poor 
for  whom  she  was  working. 

The  fall  had  prolonged  itself  into  November;  the 
weather  was  so  perfect  that  Dick  could  daily  speed  his 
automobile,  and  the  men  who,  like  Marriott,  still  clung 
to  golf,  could  play  on  Saturdays  and  Sundays  at  the 


264   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

Country  Club.  But  December  came,  and  with  it  a 
heavy  rain  that  in  three  days  became  a  sleet ;  then  the 
snow  and  a  cold  wave.  The  wretched  winter  weather, 
which  seems  to  have  a  spite  almost  personal  for  the 
lake  regions,  produced  its  results  in  the  lives  of  men — 
there  were  suicides  and  crimes  for  the  police,  and  for 
the  Organized  Charities,  the  poor,  now  forced  to 
emerge  from  the  retreats  where  in  milder  weather  they 
could  hide  their  wretchedness.  They  came  forth,  and 
when  Elizabeth  and  Mrs.  Russell  entered  the  Charities 
one  morning,  there  they  were,  ranged  along  the  wall. 
They  sat  bundled  in  their  rags,  waiting  in  dumb 
patience  for  the  last  humiliation  of  an  official 
investigation,  making  no  sound  save  as  their  ailments 
compelled  them  to  sneeze  or  to  cough  now  and  then ; 
and  as  Elizabeth  and  Mrs.  Russell  passed  into  the 
room,  they  were  followed  by  eyes  that  held  no  reproach 
or  envy,  but  merely  a  mild  curiosity.  The  poor  sat 
there,  perhaps  glad  of  the  warmth  and  the  rest ;  willing 
to  spend  the  day,  if  necessary;  with  hopes  no  higher 
than  some  mere  temporary  relief  that  would  help  them 
to  eke  out  their  lives  a  few  hours  longer  and  until  an- 
other day,  which  should  be  like  this  day,  repeating  all 
its  wants  and  hardships.  The  atmosphere  of  the  room 
was  stifling,  with  an  odor  that  sickened  Elizabeth,  the 
fetor  of  all  the  dirt  and  disease  that  poverty  had  accu- 
mulated and  heaped  upon  them. 

At  the  desk  Mrs.  Rider,  the  clerk,  and  the  two  agents 
of  the  society  were  interrogating  a  woman.  The  wom- 
an was  tall  and  slender,  and  her  pale  face  had  some 
trace  of  prettiness  left;  her  clothing  was  better  than 
that  of  the  others,  though  it  had  remained  over  from 
some  easier  circumstance  of  the  summer. 


THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE      265 

The  woman  was  hungry,  and  she  was  sick.  She  had 
reported  her  condition  to  the  agent  of  the  Society  for 
the  Prevention  of  Cruelty,  but  as  this  man  could  think 
of  nothing  better  than  to  arrest  somebody  and  have 
somebody  punished,  he  had  had  the  woman's  husband 
sent  to  the  workhouse  for  six  months,  thus  removing 
the  only  hope  she  had. 

To  Elizabeth  it  seemed  that  the  three  inquisitors 
were  trying^  not  so  much  to  discover  some  means  of 
helping  this  woman,  as  to  discover  some  excuse  for 
not  helping  her ;  they  took  turns  in  putting  to  her,  with 
a  professional  frankness,  the  most  personal  questions, 
— questions  that  made  Elizabeth  blush  and  burn  with 
shame,  even  as  they  made  the  woman  blush.  But  just 
then  a  middle-aged  woman  appeared,  and  Elizabeth 
instantly  identified  her  when  Mrs.  Rider  pleasantly  ad- 
dressed her  by  a  name  that  appeared  frequently  in  the 
newspapers  in  connection  with  deeds  that  took  on  the 
aspect  of  nobility  and  sacrifice. 

"I'm  so  glad  you  dropped  in,  Mrs.  Norton,"  said 
Mrs.  Rider.    "We  have  a  most  perplexing  case." 

The  clerk  lifted  her  eyebrows  expressively,  and 
somehow  indicated  to  Mrs.  Norton  the  woman  she 
had  just  had  under  investigation.  Mrs.  Norton 
glanced  at  the  hunted  face  and  smiled. 

"You  mean  the  Ordway  woman  ?  Exactly.  I  know 
her  case  thoroughly.  Mr.  Gleason  'phoned  me  from 
the  Society  for  the  Prevention  of  Cruelty  and  I  looked 
her  up.  You  should  have  seen  her  room — the  filthiest 
place  I  ever  saw — and  those  children !"  She  raised  her 
hands,  covered  with  gloves,  and  her  official-looking 
reticule  slid  up  her  forearm  as  if  to  express  an  impos- 
sibility.   "The  woman  was  tired  of  farm  life — deter- 


2(£      THE  TURN   OF  THE   BALANCE 

mined  to  come  to  town — fascinated  by  city  life — she 
complained  of  her  husband,  and  yet — what  do  you 
think? — she  wanted  me  to  get  him  out  of  the  work- 
house !" 

Mrs.  Norton  stopped  as  if  she  had  made  an  unan- 
swerable argument  and  proved  that  the  woman  should 
not  be  helped;  and  Mrs.  Rider  and  the  two  agents 
seemed  to  be  relieved.  Presently  Mrs.  Rider  called 
the  woman,  and  told  her  that  her  case  was  not  one 
that  came  within  the  purview  of  the  society's  objects, 
and  when  the  hope  was  dying  out  of  the  woman's 
face  Mrs.  Norton  began  to  lecture  her  on  the  care  of 
children,  and  to  assure  her  the  city  was  filled  with 
pitfalls  for  such  as  she.  The  woman,  beaten  into  hu- 
mility, listened  a  while,  and  then  she  turned  and 
dragged  herself  toward  the  door.  The  eyes  of  the 
waiting  paupers  followed  her  with  the  same  impersonal 
curiosity  they  had  shown  in  the  entrance  of  Mrs.  Rus- 
sell and  Elizabeth  and  Mrs.  Norton. 

The  limp  retreating  figure  of  the  woman  filled  Eliz- 
abeth with  distress.  When,  at  the  door,  she  saw  the 
woman  press  to  her  eyes  the  sodden  handkerchief  she 
had  been  rolling  in  her  palm  during  the  interview,  she 
ran  after  her;  in  the  hall  outside,  away  from  others, 
she  called;  the  woman  turned  and  gazed  at  her  suspi- 
ciously. 

"Here !"  said  Elizabeth  fearfully. 

She  opened  her  purse  and  emptied  from  it  into  the 
woman's  hand  all  the  silver  it  held. 

"Where  do  you  live  ?"  she  asked,  and  as  the  woman 
gave  her  the  number  of  the  house  where  she  rented 
a  room,  Elizabeth  realized  how  inappropriate  the  word 
"live"  was.  Elizabeth  returned  to  the  office  with  a  glow 


THE   TURN   OF   THE   BALANCE      267 

in  her  breast,  though  she  dreaded  Mrs.  Norton,  whom 
she  feared  she  had  affronted  by  her  deed.  But  Mrs. 
Norton  received  her  with  a  smile. 

"It  seemed  hard  to  you,  no  doubt,"  Mrs.  Norton 
said,  and  Mrs.  Rider  and  the  two  agents  looked  up  with 
smiles  of  their  own,  as  if  they  were  about  to  shine  in 
Mrs.  Norton's  justification,  "but  you'll  learn  after  a 
while.  We  must  discriminate,  you  know ;  we  must  not 
pauperize  them.  When  you've  been  in  the  work  as 
long  as  I  have," — she  paused  with  a  superior  lift  of 
her  eyebrows  at  the  use  of  this  word  "work," — "you'll 
understand  better." 

Elizabeth  felt  a  sudden  indignation  which  she  con- 
cealed, because  she  had  her  own  doubts,  after  all.  The 
ladies  were  gathering  for  the  committee  meeting  and 
just  then  Mrs.  Russell  beckoned  her  into  an  inner 
room. 

"The  air  is  better  in  here,"  she  said. 


XV 


Every  day  Elizabeth  went  to  the  Organized  Chari- 
ties. The  committee  on  arrangements  divided  itself 
into  subcommittees,  and  these,  with  other  committees 
that  were  raised,  must  have  meetings,  make  reports, 
receive  instructions,  and  consider  ways  and  means. 
The  labor  entailed  was  enormous.  The  women  were 
exhausted  before  the  first  week  had  ended ;  the  rustling 
of  their  skirts  as  they  ran  to  and  fro,  their  incessant 
chatter— they  all  spoke  at  once — their  squealing  at 
each  other  as  their  nerves  snapped  under  the  strain, 
filled  the  rooms  with  clamor.  But  all  this  endless  con- 
fusion and  complication  were  considered  necessary  in 
order  to  effect  an  organization.  If  any  one  doubted  or 
complained,  it  was  only  necessary  to  speak  the  word 
"organization,'*  and  criticism  was  immediately  silenced. 

It  had  been  discovered  very  early  in  the  work  of 
this  organization  that  Mrs.  Russell's  great  house 
would  be  too  small  for  the  bazaar,  and  it  had  been  a 
relief  to  her  when  a  certain  Mrs.  Spayd  offered  to 
place  at  the  disposal  of  the  committee  the  new  mansion 
her  husband  had  just  built  on  Claybourne  Avenue  and 
named  with  the  foreign-sounding  name  of  "Belle- 
mere."  Mrs.  Spayd  privately  conveyed  the  informa- 
tion that  the  young  people  might  have  the  ball-room 
at  the  top  of  the  house,  where  the  most  exclusive,  if 
they  desired,  could  dance,  and  she  commissioned  a 
firm  of  decorators  to  transform  Bellemere  into  a  ba- 

268 


THE  TURN  of:  the   BALANCE      269 

zaar.  Mrs.  Spayd  was  to  bear  the  entire  expense,  and 
her  charity  was  lauded  everywhere,  especially  in  the 
society  columns  of  the  newspapers.  The  booths  were 
to  represent  different  nations,  and  it  was  suddenly 
found  to  be  desirable  to  dress  as  peasants.  The  women 
who  were  to  serve  in  these  booths  flew  to  costumers  to 
have  typical  clothing  made.  And  this  occasioned  still 
greater  conflict  and  confusion,  for  each  woman  wished 
to  represent  that  country  whose  inhabitants  were  sup- 
posed to  wear  the  most  picturesque  costumes. 

Meanwhile  the  cold  weather  held  and  the  poor  be- 
sieged the  Charities.  No  matter  how  early  Elizabeth 
might  arrive,  no  matter  how  late  she  might  leave,  they 
were  always  there,  a  stolid,  patient  row  along  the  wall, 
or  crowding  up  to  the  railing,  or  huddling  in  the  hall 
outside.  For  a  while  Elizabeth,  regarding  them  in  the 
mass,  thought  that  the  same  persons  came  each  day, 
but  she  discovered  that  this  was  not  the  case.  As  she 
looked  she  noted  a  curious  circumstance:  the  faces 
gradually  took  on  individuality,  slight  at  first,  but 
soon  decided,  until  each  stood  out  among  the  others 
and  developed  the  sharpest,  most  salient  characteris- 
tics. She  saw  in  each  face  the  story  of  a  single  life, 
and  always  a  life  of  neglect  and  failure,  as  if  the  misery 
of  the  world  had  been  distributed  in  a  kind  of  ironical 
variation.  These  people  all  were  victims  of  a  common 
doom,  presenting  itself  each  time  in  a  different  aspect ; 
they  were  all  alike — and  yet  they  were  all  different, 
like  leaves  of  a  tree. 

One  afternoon  Elizabeth  suddenly  noted  a  face  that 
stood  out  in  such  relief  that  it  became  the  only  face 
there  for  her.  It  was  the  face  of  a  young  man,  and  it 
wore  a  strange  pallor,  and  as  Elizabeth  hurried  by  she 


276   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

was  somehow  cpnscious  that  the  young  man's  eyes 
were  following  her  with  a  peculiar  searching  glance. 
When  she  sat  down  to  await  the  women  of  the  com- 
mittee with  which  she  was  to  meet,  the  young  man 
still  gazed  at  her  steadily ;  she  grew  uncomfortable,  al- 
most resentful.  She  felt  this  continued  stare  to  be  a 
rudeness,  and  then  suddenly  she  wondered  why  any 
rudeness  of  these  people  should  be  capable  of  affecting 
her;  surely  they  were  not  of  her  class,  to  be  judged  by 
her  standards.  But  she  turned  away,  and  determined 
not  to  look  that  way  again,  for  fear  that  the  young  man 
might  accost  her. 

And  yet,  though  she  persistently  looked  away,  the 
face  had  so  impressed  her  that  she  still  could  see  it. 
In  her  first  glimpse  it  had  been  photographed  on  her 
mind ;  its  pallor  was  remarkable,  the  skin  had  a  damp, 
dead  whiteness,  as  if  it  had  bleached  in  a  cave,  curls 
of  thin  brown  hair  clung  to  the  brows;  on  the  boy's 
neck  was  a  streak  of  black  where  the  collar  of  his  coat 
had  rubbed  its  color.  In  his  thin  hands  he  held  a 
plush  cap.  And  out  of  his  pale  face  his  wan  eyes 
looked  and  followed  her;  she  could  not  escape  them, 
and  for  relief  she  finally  fled  to  the  inner  room. 

"We  have  made  arrangements,"  said  one  of  the 
women,  "to  hold  our  committee  meetings  hereafter  at 
Mrs.  Spayd's.  She  has  kindly  put  her  library  at  our 
disposal.    This  place  is  unbearable !" 

She  flung  up  a  window  and  let  the  fresh  air  pour  in. 

"Yes,"  sighed  another  woman,  "the  air  is  sickening. 
It  gives  me  a  headache.  If  the  poor  could  only  be 
taught  that  cleanliness  is  akin  to  godliness!" 

Elizabeth's  head  ached,  too;  it  would  be  a  relief  to 
be  delivered  out  of  this  atmosphere.    But  still  the  face 


THE   TURN   OF  THE   BALANCE      271 

of  the  young  man  pursued  her.  She  could  not  follow 
the  deliberations  of  the  committee ;  she  could  think  of 
nothing  but  that  face.  Where,  she  continually  asked 
herself,  had  she  seen  it  before?  She  sat  by  a  window, 
and  looked  down  into  the  street,  preoccupied  by  the 
effort  to  identify  it.  She  gave  herself  up  to  the  pain 
of  the  process,  as  one  does  when  trying  to  remember 
a  name.  Now  and  then  she  caught  phrases  of  the 
sentences  the  women  began,  but  seemed  never  able  to 
finish :— "Oh,  I  hardly  think  that—"  "As  a  class,  of 
course — "  "Oriental  hangings  would  be  best — " 
"Cheese-cloth  looks  cheap — "  "Of  course,  flags — '' 
"We  could  solicit  the  merchants — "  "My  husband  was 
saying  last  night — " 

But  where  had  she  seen  that  face  before?  Why 
should  it  pursue  and  worry  her?  What  had  she  ever 
done?  Finally,  after  two  hours  of  the  mighty  effort 
and  patience  that  are  necessary  to  bring  a  number  of 
minds  to  grasp  a  subject  and  agree  even  on  the  most 
insignificant  detail,  two  hours  in  which  thoughts  hov- 
ered and  flitted  here  and  there,  and  could  not  find  ex- 
pression, when  minds  held  back,  and  continually 
balked  at  the  specific,  the  certain,  the  definite,  and 
sought  refuge  from  decision  in  the  general  and  the 
abstract,  the  committee  exhausted  itself,  and  decided 
to  adjourn.  Then,  although  it  had  reached  no  conclu- 
sions whatever,  the  matron  who  presided  smiled  and 
said: 

"Well,  I  feel  that  weVe  making  progress." 

"I  don't  feel  as  if  we'd  done  much,"  some  one  else 
said.    "And  I  can  not  come  on  Friday." 

"Do  you  know,  I  really  haven't  got  a  single  one  of 
my  Christmas  presents  yet." 


272      THE  TURN  OB]  THE   BALANCE 

"I  have  to  give  sixty-seven!  Just  think!  What  a 
burden  it  all  is !" 

Elizabeth  dreaded  the  sight  of  that  boy^s  face  again, 
but  it  was  growing  late,  the  early  winter  twilight  was 
expanding  its  gloom  in  the  room.  She  made  haste, 
and  walked  swiftly  through  the  outer  office.  The 
young  man  was  no  longer  there.  But  though  this  v/as 
a  relief,  his  face  still  followed  her.    Who  could  he  be  ? 

The  air  out  of  doors  was  grateful.  It  soothed  her 
hot  cheeks,  and,  though  her  head  throbbed  more  vio- 
lently for  an  instant  from  the  exertion  of  coming  down 
the  steps,  she  drew  in  great  drafts  of  the  winter  air 
with  a  comforting  sense  that  it  was  cleansing  her 
lungs  of  all  that  foul  atmosphere  of  poverty  she  had 
been  breathing  for  two  days.  She  walked  hurriedly  to 
the  corner,  to  wait  for  a  car ;  beside  her,  St.  I  ake's,  as 
with  an  effort,  lifted  its  Gothic  arches  of  gra}  stone  into 
the  dark  sky;  across  the  street  the  City  Hnll  loomed, 
its  windows  bright  with  lights.  The  aften  .x)n  crowds 
were  streaming  by  on  the  sidewalk,  wagOM^  and  heavy 
trucks  jolted  and  rumbled  along  the  streel  ;  she  saw  the 
drivers  of  coal-wagons,  the  whites  of  their  eyes  flash- 
ing under  the  electric  lights  against  faces  black  as 
negroes  with  the  grime.  Politicians  were  coming  from 
the  City  Hall ;  here  and  there,  in  and  out  of  the  crowd, 
newsboys  darted,  shouting  "All  'bout  the  murder !''  The 
shops  were  ablaze,  their  windows  tricked  out  for  the 
holidays ;  throngs  of  people  hurried  by,  intent,  preoc- 
cupied, selfish.  As  Elizabeth  stood  there,  the  constant 
stream  of  faces  oppressed  her  with  an  intolerable 
gloom;  the  blazing  electric  lights,  signs  of  theaters 
and  restaurants,  were  mere  mockeries  of  pleasure  and 
comfort.    And  always  the  ro^r  of  the  city.    It  was  the 


THE   TURN   OF   THE   BALANCE      273 

hour  when  the  roar  became  low  and  dull,  a  deep,  ugly 
note  of  weariness  and  discontent  was  in  it,  the  grumble 
of  a  city  that  was  exhausted  from  its  long  day  of  con- 
fusion and  wearing,  complicated  effort.  On  the  City 
Hall  corner,  a  man  with  the  red-banded  cap  of  the  Sal- 
vation Army  stood  beside  an  iron  kettle  suspended  be- 
neath a  tripod,  swaying  from  side  to  side,  stamping 
his  huge  feet  in  the  cold,  jangling  a  little  hand-bell, 
and  constantly  crying  in  a  bass  voice : 

"Remember  the  poor !  Remember  the  poor !" 
She  recalled,  suddenly,  that  the  outcasts  at  the  Char- 
ities invariably  sneered  whenever  the  Salvation  Army 
was  suggested,  and  she  was  impatient  with  this  man  in 
the  cap  with  the  red  band,  his  enormous  sandy  mus- 
tache frozen  into  repulsive  little  icicles.  Why  must  he 
add  his  din  to  this  tired  roar  of  the  worn-out  city  ? 

Her  car  came  presently,  jerking  along,  stopping  and 
starting  again  in  the  crowded  street.  The  crowd 
sweeping  by  brushed  her  now  and  then,  but  suddenly 
she  felt  a  more  personal  contact — some  one  had 
touched  her.  She  shrank;  she  shuddered  with  fear, 
then  she  ran  out  to  her  car.  Inside  she  began  again 
that  study  of  faces.  She  tried  not  to  do  so,  but  she 
seemed  unable  to  shake  off  the  habit — that  face  seemed 
always  to  be  looking  out  at  her  from  all  other  faces, 
white  and  sensitive,  with  the  black  mark  on  the  neck 
where  the  coat  collar  had  rubbed  its  color.  And  the 
eyes  more  and  more  reproached  her,  as  if  she  had  been 
responsible  for  the  sadness  that  lay  in  them.  The  car 
whirred  on,  the  conductor  opened  the  door  with  monot- 
onous regularity,  and  called  out  the  interminable 
streets.  The  air  in  the  car,  overheated  by  the  little  coal- 
stove,  took  on  the  foul  smell  of  the  air  at  the  Charities. 


274   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

Elizabeth's  head  ached  more  and  more,  a  sickness  came 
over  her.  At  last  she  reached  the  street  which  led 
across  to  Claybourne  Avenue,  and  got  off.  She  crossed 
the  little  triangular  park.  The  air  had  suddenly  taken 
on  a  new  life,  it  was  colder  and  clearer.  The  dampness 
it  had  held  in  suspense  for  days  was  leaving  it.  Looking 
between  the  black  trunks  of  the  trees  in  the  park  she 
saw  the  western  sky,  yellow  and  red  where  the  sun  had 
gone  down;  and  she  thought  of  her  home,  with  its 
comfort  and  warmth  and  light,  and  the  logs  in  the 
great  fireplace  in  the  library.  She  hastened  on,  soothed 
and  reassured.  In  the  sense  of  certain  comfort  she 
now  confidently  anticipated,  she  could  get  the  poor  out 
of  her  mind,  and  feel  as  she  used  to  feel  before  they 
came  to  annoy  her.  The  clouds  were  clearing,  the  sky 
took  on  the  deep  blue  it  shows  at  evening;  one  star 
began  to  sparkle  frostily,  and,  just  as  peace  was 
returning,  that  young  man's  face  came  back,  and  she 
remembered  instantly,  in  a  flash,  that  it  was  the  face  of 
Harry  Graves. 


XVI 

Elizabeth  was  right;  it  was  Harry  Graves.  Four 
weeks  before  he  had  been  released  from  the  peniten- 
tiary. On  the  day  that  he  was  permitted  to  go  forth 
into  the  world  again  as  a  free  man,  the  warden  gave 
him  a  railroad  ticket  back  to  the  city,  a  suit  of  prison- 
made  clothes,  a  pair  of  prison-made  brogans,  and  a 
shirt.  These  clothes  were  a  disappointment  and  a  cha- 
grin to  Graves.  When  he  went  into  the  prison,  the 
fall  before,  he  had  an  excellent  suit  of  clothes  and  a 
new  overcoat,  and  during  the  whole  year  he  had  looked 
forward  to  the  pleasure  he  would  experience  in  don- 
ning these  again.  He  had  felt  a  security  in  returning 
to  the  world  well-habited  and  presentable.  But  one  of 
the  guards  had  noticed  Graves's  clothes  when  he  en- 
tered the  penitentiary  and  had  stolen  them,  so  that 
when  he  was  released.  Graves  was  forced  to  go  back 
wearing  a  suit  of  the  shoddy  clothes  one  of  the  con- 
tractors manufactured  in  the  prison,  and  sold  to  the 
state  at  a  profit  sufficient  to  repay  him  and  to  provide 
certain  officials  of  the  penitentiary  with  a  good  income 
as  well.  These  clothes  were  of  dull  black.  A  detective 
could  recognize  them  anywhere.  Before  Graves  had 
reached  the  city,  the  collar  had  rubbed  black  against 
his  neck. 

Things,  of  course,  had  changed  while  he  was  in 
prison.    His  mother  had  died  and  he  had  no  home  to 

^7^0 


%6      THE  TURN   OF,  THE  BALANCE  , 

go  to.  Besides  this,  he  had  contracted  tuberculosis  in 
the  penitentiary,  as  did  many  of  the  convicts  unless 
they  were  men  of  exceptionally  strong  constitutions. 
Nevertheless  Graves  was  glad  to  be  free  on  any  terms, 
and  glad  to  be  back  in  the  city  in  which  he  had  been 
born  and  reared.  And  yet,  no  sooner  was  he  back  than 
the  fear  of  the  city  lay  on  him.  He  dreaded  to  meet 
men;  he  felt  their  eyes  following  him  curiously.  He 
knew  that  he  presented  an  uncouth  figure  in  those 
miserable  clothes  and  the  clumsy  prison  brogans.  Be- 
sides, he  had  so  long  walked  in  the  lock-step  that  his 
gait  was  now  constrained,  awkward  and  unnatural; 
having  been  forbidden  to  speak  for  more  than  a  year, 
and  having  spoken  at  all  but  surreptitiously,  he  found 
it  impossible  to  approach  men  with  his  old  frank- 
ness; having  been  compelled  to  keep  his  gaze  on 
the  ground,  he  could  not  look  men  in  the  eyes,  and  so 
he  seemed  to  be  a  surly,  taciturn  creature  with  a  hang- 
dog air. 

During  the  three  weeks  Graves  had  been  confined  in 
jail,  prior  to  his  plea  and  sentence,  he  had  thought 
over  his  misdeeds,  recognized  his  mistakes  and  formed 
the  most  strenuous  resolutions  of  betterment.  He  was 
determined,  then,  to  live  a  better  life ;  but  as  he  could 
not  hve  while  in  prison,  but  merely  "do  time,"  he  was 
compelled,  of  course,  to  wait  a  year  before  he  could 
begin  Hfe  anew.  During  the  eleven  months  he  spent 
in  the  penitentiary  he  had  tried  to  keep  these  resolu- 
tions fresh,  strong  and  ever  clear  before  him.  This 
was  a  difficult  thing  to  do,  for  his  mind  was  weakened 
by  the  confinement,  and  his  moral  sense  was  constantly 
clouded  by  the  examples  that  were  placed  before  him. 
On   Sundays,   in  the  chapel,  he  heard  the  chaplain 


THE  TURN   OF  THE   BALANCE      2^^ 

preach,  but  during  the  week  the  guards  stole  the  com- 
forts his  mother  sent  to  him  before  she  died,  the  con- 
tractors and  the  prison  officials  were  grafting  and 
stealing  from  the  state  provisions,  household  furni- 
ture, liquors,  wines,  and  every  other  sort  of  thing ;  one 
of  the  prison  officials  supplied  his  brother's  drug  store 
with  medicines  and  surgical  appliances  from  the  prison 
hospital.  Besides  all  this,  the  punishments  he  was  com- 
pelled at  times  to  witness — the  water-cure,  the  paddle, 
the  electric  battery,  the  stringing  up  by  the  wrists,  not 
to  mention  the  loathsome  practices  of  the  convicts 
themselves — ^benumbed  and  appalled  him,  until  he 
shuddered  with  terror  lest  his  mind  give  way.  But  all 
these  things,  he  felt,  would  be  at  an  end  if  he  could 
keep  his  reason  and  his  health,  and  live  to  the  end  of 
his  term.  Then  he  could  leave  them  all  behind  and  go 
out  into  the  world  and  begin  life  anew. 

Graves  came  back  to  town  during  those  last  glorious 
days  of  the  autumn,  and  the  fact  that  he  had  no  place 
to  go  was  not  so  much  a  hardship.  He  did  not  care 
to  show  himself  to  his  old  friends  until  he  had  had 
opportunity  to  procure  new  clothes,  and  he  felt  that 
he  was  started  on  the  way  to  this  rehabilitation  when 
almost  immediately  he  found  a  place  trucking  mer- 
chandise for  a  wholesale  house  in  Front  Street.  He 
felt  encouraged;  his  luck,  he  told  himself,  was  good, 
and  for  three  days  he  was  happy  in  his  work.  Then, 
one  morning,  he  noticed  a  policeman;  the  policeman 
stood  on  the  sidewalk,  watching  Graves  roll  barrels 
down  the  skids  from  a  truck.  The  policeman  stood 
there  a  good  while,  and  then  he  spoke  to  the  driver, 
admired  the  magnificent  horses  that  were  hitched  to 
the  truck,  patted  their  glossy  necks,  picked  up  some 


278   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

sugar  that  had  been  spilled  from  a  burst  barrel  and  let 
the  horses  lick  the  sugar  from  the  palm  of  his  hand. 
The  horses  tossed  their  heads  playfully  as  they  did 
this,  and,  meanwhile,  the  policeman  glanced  every  few- 
minutes  at  Graves.  Presently,  he  went  into  the  whole- 
sale house,  and  through  the  window  Graves  saw  him 
talking  to  the  manager.  That  evening  the  manager 
paid  Graves  for  his  three  days'  work  and  discharged 
him. 

On  this  money,  four  dollars  and  a  half.  Graves  lived 
for  a  week,  meanwhile  hunting  another  job.  He  could 
do  nothing  except  manual  labor,  for  he  was  not  prop- 
erly clothed  for  any  clerical  employment.  He  walked 
along  the  entire  river  front,  seeking  work  on  the 
wharves  as  a  stevedore,  but  no  one  could  work  there 
who  was  not  a  member  of  the  Longshoremen's  Union, 
and  no  one  could  be  a  member  of  the  Longshoremen's 
Union  who  did  not  work  there ;  so  this  plan  failed.  He 
visited  employment  bureaus,  but  these  demanded  fees 
and  deposits.  Graves  read  the  want  advertisements  in 
the  newspapers,  but  none  of  these  availed  him ;  each 
prospective  employer  demanded  references  which 
Graves  could  not  give. 

The  snow-storm  brought  him  a  prosperity  as  fleeting 
as  the  snow  itself;  he  went  into  the  residence  district 
— where  as  yet  he  had  not  had  the  heart  to  go  be- 
cause of  memories  that  haunted  it — and  cleaned  the 
sidewalks  of  the  well-to-do.  After  a  day  or  so,  the 
sidewalks  of  the  well-to-do  were  all  cleaned, — ^that  is, 
the  sidewalks  of  those  who  respected  the  laws  suffi- 
ciently to  have  their  sidewalks  cleaned.  Then  the  rain 
came,  and  Graves  tramped  the  slushy  streets.  His 
prison-made  shoes  were  as  pervious  to  water  as  paper, 


THE  TURN   OF  THE  BALANCE      279 

of  which  substance,  indeed,  they  were  made;  he  con- 
tracted a  cold,  and  his  cough  grew  rapidly  worse.  He 
had  no  place  to  sleep.  He  spent  a  night  in  each  of  the 
two  lodging-houses  in  the  city,  then  he  "flopped"  on 
the  floor  of  a  police  station.  In  this  place  he  became 
infested  with  vermin,  though  this  was  no  new  experi- 
ence to  him  after  eleven  months  in  the  cells  of  the  peni- 
tentiary. Meanwhile,  he  had  little  to  eat.  Once  or 
twice,  he  visited  hotel  kitchens  and  the  chefs  gave  him 
scraps  from  the  table;  then  he  did  what  for  days  he 
had  been  dreading — he  tried  to  beg.  After  allowing 
twenty  people  to  go  by,  he  found  the  courage  to  hold 
out  his  hand  to  the  twenty-first ;  the  man  passed  with- 
out noticing  him ;  a  dozen  others  did  likewise.  Then 
a  policeman  saw  him  and  arrested  him  on  a  charge  of 
vagrancy.  At  the  police  station  the  officers,  recogniz- 
ing his  prison  clothes,  held  him  for  three  days  as  a 
suspicious  character.  Then  he  was  arraigned  before 
Bostwick,  who  scowled  and  told  him  he  would  give 
him  twenty-four  hours  in  which  to  leave  the  city. 

It  was  now  cold.  The  wind  cut  through  Graves's 
clothing  like  a  saw ;  he  skulked  and  hid  for  two  days ; 
then,  intolerably  hungry,  he  went  to  the  Organized 
Charities.  He  sat  there  for  two  hours  that  afternoon, 
glad  of  the  delay  because  the  room  was  warm.  He 
thought  much  during  those  two  hours,  though  his 
thoughts  were  no  longer  clear.  He  was  able,  however, 
to  recall  a  belief  he  had  held  before  coming  out  of  the 
penitentiary, — a  belief  that  he  had  paid  the  penalty  for 
his  crime,  that,  having  served  the  sentence  society  had 
imposed  on  him,  his  punishment  was  at  an  end.  This 
view  had  seemed  to  be  confirmed  by  the  certificate  that 
had  been  issued  to  him,  under  the  Great  Seal  of  State 


28o      iTHE  TURN   OF.  THE   BALANCE 

and  signed  by  the  governor,  restoring  him  to  citizen- 
ship. But  now  he  realized  that  this  belief  had  been  er- 
roneous, that  he  had  not  at  all  paid  the  penalty,  that 
he  had  not  served  his  sentence,  that  his  punishment 
was  not  at  an  end,  and  that  he  had  not  been  restored 
to  citizenship.  The  Great  Seal  of  State  had  attested 
an  hypocrisy  and  a  lie,  and  the  governor  had  signed 
his  name  to  this  lie  with  a  conceited  flourish  at  the  end 
of  his  pen.  Graves  formulated  this  conclusion  with  an 
effort,  but  he  grasped  it  finally,  and  his  mind  clung  to 
it  and  revolved  about  it,  finding  something  it  could 
hold  to. 

And  then,  suddenly,  Elizabeth  Ward  entered  tHe 
room.  He  knew  her  instantly,  and  his  heart  leaped 
with  a  wild  desperate  hope.  He  watched  her ;  she  was 
beautiful  in  the  seal-skin  jacket  that  fitted  her' slender 
figure  so  well ;  her  hat  with  its  touch  of  green  became 
her  dark  hair.  He  noted  the  flush  of  her  cheek,  the 
sparkle  of  her  eyes  behind  the  veil.  He  remembered 
her  as  he  had  seen  her  that  last  day  she  came  into  her 
father's  office;  he  remembered  how  heavy  his  own 
heart  had  been  under  its  load  of  guilty  fears.  He  re- 
called the  affection  her  father  had  shown,  how  his  tired 
face  had  smiled  when  he  saw  her.  Graves  remem- 
bered that  the  smile  had  filled  him  with  a  pity  for 
Ward ;  he  seemed  once  more  to  see  Ward  fondly  take 
her  little  gloved  hand  and  hold  it  while  he  looked 
up  at  her,  and  how  he  had  laughed  and  evidently  joked 
her  as  he  swung  about  to  his  desk  and  wrote  out  a 
check.  And  then,  as  she  went  out,  she  had  smiled  at 
the  clerks  and  spoken  to  them ;  she  had  smiled  on  him 
and  spoken  to  him;  would  she  smile  now,  this  day? 
The  hope  leaped  wild  in  his  heart.    If  she  did !    She 


THE   TURN   OF   THE   BALANCE      281 

was  the  apple  of  her  father's  eye — ^he  would  do  any- 
thing for  her ;  if  she  would  but  see  and  recognize  him 
now,  give  him  the  least  hint  of  encouragement  or  per- 
mission, he  would  tell  her,  she  would  speak  to  her  fa- 
ther and  he  would  help  him.  His  whole  being  seemed 
to  melt  within  him — he  half  started  from  his  chair — his 
eyes  were  wide  with  the  excitement  of  this  hope.  He 
never  once  took  them  from  her;  he  must  not  permit 
an  instant  to  escape  him,  lest  she  look  his  way.  He 
watched  her  as  she  sat  by  the  window ;  she  made  a  pic- 
ture he  never  could  forget.  Once  she  turned.  Ah !  it 
was  coming  now ! — ^but  no — yes,  she  was  moving !  She 
had  gone  into  the  other  room.  He  hoped  now  that  his 
case  would  be  one  of  the  last.  He  must  see  her.  After 
a  while  the  agent  beckoned  him,  looked  at  him  suspi- 
ciously, and  said : 

"How  long  have  you  been  out  ?" 

"A  month,"  said  Graves. 

"Well,  I  haven't  got  no  use  for  convicts,'*  said  the 
agent. 

Graves  waited  in  the  hall.  He  waited  until  it  was 
dark,  but  not  so  dark  that  the  agent  could  not  recog- 
nize him. 

"You  needn't  hang  around,"  he  said ;  "there's  noth- 
ing to  steal  here." 

Graves  waited,  then,  outside.  He  feared  He  would 
miss  Elizabeth  in  the  dark,  or  confuse  her  among  the 
other  women.  The  thought  made  him  almost  frantic. 
The  women  came  out,  and  finally — yes,  it  was  Eliza- 
beth! He  could  nowhere  mistake  that  figure.  He 
pressed  up,  he  spoke,  he  put  forth  a  hand  to  touch  her 
—she  turned  with  a  start  of  fright.  He  saw  a  police- 
man looking  at  him  narrowly.  And  then  he  gave  up, 
slunk  ofif,  and  was  lost  in  the  crowd. 


XVII 

Seated  in  the  library  at  the  Wards',  Eades  gave 
himself  up  to  the  influences  of  the  moment.  The  open 
fire  gave  off  the  faint  delicious  odor  of  burning  wood, 
the  lamp  filled  the  room  with  a  soft  light  that  gleamed 
on  the  gilt  lettering  of  the  books  about  the  walls,  the 
pictures  above  the  low  shelves — a  portrait  of  Browning 
among  them — lent  to  the  room  the  dignity  of  the  great 
souls  they  portrayed.  Eades,  who  had  just  tried  his 
second  murder  case,  was  glad  to  find  this  refuge  from 
the  thoughts  that  had  harassed  him  for  a  week.  Eliza- 
beth noticed  the  weariness  in  his  eyes,  and  she  had  a 
notion  that  his  hair  glistened  a  little  more  grayly  at 
his  temples. 

"You've  been  going  through  an  ordeal  this  week, 
haven't  you  ?"  She  had  expressed  the  thought  that  lay 
on  their  minds.  He  felt  a  thrill.  She  sympathized, 
and  this  was  comfort ;  this  was  what  he  wanted ! 

"It  must  have  been  exciting,"  Elizabeth  continued. 
"Murder  trials  usually  are,  I  believe.  I  never  saw  one ; 
I  never  was  in  a  court-room  in  my  life.  Women  do  go, 
I  suppose  ?" 

"Yes — women  of  a  certain  kind."  His  tone  depre- 
cated the  practice.  "We've  had  big  audiences  all  the 
week ;  it  would  have  disgusted  you  to  see  them  strug- 
gling and  scrambling  for  admission.  Now  I  suppose 
they'll  be  sending  flowers  to  the  wretch,  and  all  that." 

Eades  chose  to  forget  how  entirely  the  crowd  had 
282 


THE   TURN   OF  THE   BALANCE      2^3 

sympathized  with  him,  and  how  the  atmosphere  of  the 
trial  had  been  wholly  against  the  wretch. 

"Well,  I'll  promise  not  to  send  him  any  flowers," 
Elizabeth  said  quickly.    "He'll  have  to  hang?" 

"No,  not  hang;  we  don't  hang  people  in  this  state 
any  more ;  we  electrocute  them.  But  I  forgot ;  Gordon 
Marriott  told  me  I  mustn't  say  'electrocute';  he  says 
there  is  no  such  word." 

"Gordon  is  particular,"  Elizabeth  observed  with  a 
laugh. 

Eades  thought  she  laughed  sympathetically;  and  he 
wanted  all  her  sympathy  for  himself  just  then. 

"He  calls  it  killing."  Eades  grasped  the  word  boldly, 
like  a  nettle. 

"Gordon  doesn't  believe  in  capital  punishment." 

"So  I  understand." 

"I  don't  either." 

Her  tone  startled  him.  He  glanced  up.  She  was 
looking  at  him  steadily. 

"Did  you  read  of  this  man's  crime  ?"  he  asked. 

"No,  I  don't  read  about  crimes." 

"Then  I'll  spare  you.  Only,  he  shot  a  man  down  in 
cold  blood ;  there  were  eye-witnesses ;  there  is  no  doubt 
of  his  guilt.    He  made  no  defense." 

"Then  it  couldn't  have  been  hard  to  convict  him." 

"No,"  Eades  admitted,  though  he  did  not  like  this 
detraction  from  his  triumph.  "But  the  responsibility 
is  great." 

"I  should  imagine  so." 

He  did  not  know  exactly  what  she  meant;  he  won- 
dered if  this  were  sarcasm. 

"It  is  indeed,"  he  insisted. 

"Yes,"  she  went  on,  "I  know  it  must  be.    I  couldn't 


284   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

bear  it  myself.  I'm  glad  women  are  not  called  to  such 
responsibilities.  I  believe  it  is  said — isn't  it? — that 
their  sentimental  natures  unfit  them."  She  was  smil- 
ing. 

"You're  guying  now,"  he  said,  leaning  back  in  his 
chair. 

"Oh,  indeed,  no !  Of  course,  I  know  nothing  about 
such  things — save  that  you  men  are  superior  to  your 
emotional  natures,  and  rise  above  them  and  control 
them." 

"Well,  not  always.  We  become  emotional,  but  our 
emotions  are  usually  excited  on  the  side  of  justice." 

"What  is  that?" 

"Justice?    Why— well— " 

"You  mean  'an  eye  for  an  eye,'  I  suppose,  and  'a  life 
for  a  life.' "  Elizabeth  looked  at  him  steadily,  and  he 
feared  she  was  making  him  ridiculous. 

"I'm  not  sure  that  I  believe  in  capital  punishment 
myself,"  he  said,  seeing  that  she  would  not,  after  all, 
sympathize  with  him,  "but  luckily  I  have  no  choice;  I 
have  only  my  duty  to  do,  and  that  is  to  enforce  the 
laws  as  I  find  them."  He  settled  back  as  if  he  had 
found  a  sure  foundation  and  placed  his  fingers  tip  to 
tip,  his  polished  nails  gleaming  in  the  firelight  as  if 
they  were  wet.  "I  can  only  do  my  duty ;  the  jury,  the 
judge,  the  executioner,  may  do  theirs  or  not.  My  per- 
sonal feelings  can  not  enter  into  the  matter  in  the 
least.  That's  the  beauty  of  our  system.  Of  course,  it's 
hard  and  unpleasant,  but  we  can't  allow  our  sentiments 
to  stand  in  the  way."  Plainly  he  enjoyed  the  nobility 
of  this  attTtude.  "As  a  man,  I  might  not  believe  in 
capital  punishment — but  as  an  official — " 

"You  divide  yourself  into  two  personalities  ?"  ' 


THE  TURN   OF  THE   BALANCE      ^285 

'Well,  in  that  sense—" 

"How  disagreeable !"  Elizabeth  gave  a  little  shrug. 
"It's  a  kind  of  vivisection,  isn't  it  ?" 

"But  something  has  to  be  done.  What  would  you 
have  me  do  ?"  He  sat  up  and  met  her,  and  she  shrank 
from  the  conflict. 

"Oh,  don't  ask  me !  I  don't  know  anything  about  it, 
I'm  sure !  I  know  but  one  criminal,  and  I  don't  wish 
to  dream  about  him  to-night." 

"It  is  strange  to  be  discussing  such  topics,"  said 
Eades.  "You  must  pardon  me  for  being  so  disagreea- 
ble and  depressing." 

"Oh,  I'll  forgive  you,"  she  laughed.  "I'd  really  like 
to  know  about  such  things.  As  I  say,  I  have  known 
but  one  criminal." 

"The  one  you  dream  of  ?'* 

"Yes.    Do  you  ever  dream  of  your  criminals  ?" 

"Oh,  never!  It's  bad  enough  to  be  brought  into 
contact  with  them  by  day ;  I  put  them  out  of  my  mind 
when  night  comes.  Except  this  Burns — ^he  insists  on 
pursuing  me  more  or  less.  But  now  that  he  has  his 
just  deserts,  perhaps  he'll  let  me  alone.  But  tell  me 
about  this  criminal  of  yours,  this  lucky  one  you  dream 
of.    I'd  become  a  criminal  myself — " 

"You  know  him  already,"  Elizabeth  said  hastily,  her 
cheeks  coloring. 

"I?" 

"Yes.    Do  you  remember  Harry  Graves  ?" 

Eades  bent  his  head  and  placed  his  knuckles  to  his 

chin. 

"Graves,  Graves  ?"  he  said.  "It  seems  to  me — " 
"The  boy  who  stole  from  my  father;  you  had  hini 

sent  to  the  penitentiary  for  a  ^ear — and  papa— r" 


286   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

''Oh,  I  remember ;  that  boy !  To  be  sure.  His  term 
must  be  over  now." 

"Yes,  it's  over.    I've  seen  him." 

"You !"  he  said  in  surprise.    "Where?" 

"At  the  Charity  Bureau,  before  Christmas." 

"Ah,  begging,  of  course."  Eades  shook  his  head. 
"I  vi^as  in  hopes  our  leniency  would  do  him  good ;  but 
it  seems  that  it's  never  appreciated.  I  sometimes  re- 
proach myself  with  being  too  easy  with  them ;  but  they 
do  disappoint  us — almost  invariably.  Begging!  Well, 
they  don't  want  to  work,  that's  all.  What  became  of 
him?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Elizabeth.  "I  saw  him  there, 
but  didn't  recognize  him.  After  I  had  come  away,  I 
recalled  him.  I've  reproached  myself  again  and  again. 
I  wonder  what  has  become  of  him !" 

"It's  sad,  in  a  way,"  said  Eades,  "but  I  shouldn't 
worry.  I  used  to  worry,  at  first,  but  I  soon  learned  to 
know  them.  They're  no  good,  they  won't  work,  they 
have  no  respect  for  law,  they  have  no  desire  but  to 
gratify  their  idle,  vicious  natures.  The  best  thing  is 
just  to  shut  them  up  where  they  can't  harm  any  one. 
This  may  seem  heartless,  but  I  don't  think  I'm  heart- 
less." He  smiled  tolerantly  for  himself.  "I  have  no 
personal  feeling  in  the  matter,  but  I've  learned  from 
experience.  As  for  this  Graves — I  had  my  doubts  at 
the  time.  I  thought  then  I  was  making  a  mistake  in 
recommending  leniency.  But,  really,  your  father  was 
so  cut  up,  and  I'd  rather  err  on  the  side  of  mercy."  He 
paused  a  moment,  and  then  said :  "He'll  turn  up  in 
court  again  some  day.  You'll  see.  I  shouldn't  lose  any 
more  sleep  over  him." 

Elizabeth  smiled  faintly,  but  did  not  reply.    She  sat 


THE   TURN   OF   THE   BALANCE      2^7 

with  her  elbow  on  the  arm  of  her  chair,  her  delicate 
chin  resting  on  her  hand,  and  Eades  was  content  to 
let  the  subject  drop,  if  it  would.  He  wished  the  silence 
would  prolong  itself.  His  heart  beat  rapidly;  he  felt 
a  new  energy,  a  new  joy  pulsing  within  him.  He  sat 
and  looked  at  her  calmly,  her  gaze  bent  on  the  fire,  her 
profile  revealed  to  him,  her  lashes  sweeping  her  cheek, 
the  lace  in  her  sleeve  falling  away  from  her  slender 
arm.  Should  he  tell  her  then?  He  longed  to — but 
this  was  not,  after  all,  the  moment.  The  moment 
would  come,  and  he  must  be  patient.  He  must  wait 
and  prove  himself  to  her;  she  must  understand  him; 
she  should  see  him  in  time  as  the  modern  ideal  of  man- 
hood, doing  his  duty  courageously  and  without  fear  or 
favor.    Some  day  he  would  tell  her. 

"Your  charity  bazaar  was  a  success,  I  hope?"  he 
said  presently,  coming  back  to  the  lighter  side  of  their 
last  topic. 

"I  don't  know/'  Elizabeth  said.    "I  never  inquired." 

*'You  never  inquired  ?" 

"No." 

"How  strange !    Why  not  ?" 

"I  lost  interest." 

"Oh !"  he  laughed.    "Well,  we  all  do  that." 

"The  whole  thing  palled  on  me — struck  me  as  ridic- 
ulous." 

Eades  was  perplexed.  He  could  not  in  the  least  un- 
derstand this  latest  attitude.  Surely,  she  was  a  girl  of 
many  surprises. 

"I  shouldn't  think  you  would  find  charity  ridiculous. 
A  hard-hearted  and  cruel  being  like  me  might — ^but 
you — oh.  Miss  Ward !  To  think  that  helping  the  poor 
was  ridiculous !" 


288   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

**But  it  isn't  to  help  the  poor  at  all." 

He  was  still  more  perplexed. 

"It's  to  help  the  rich.    Can't  you  see  that?" 

She  turned  and  faced  him  with  clear,  sober  gray 
eyes. 

"Can't  you  see  that?"  she  asked  again.  "If  you 
can't,  I  wish  I  knew  how  to  make  you. 

"'The  organized  charity,  scrimped  and  iced, 
In  the  name  of  a  cautious,  statistical  Christ*— 

"Do  you  know  Boyle  O'Reilly's  poetry  ?" 
Eades  showed  the  embarrassment  of  one  who  has 
not  the  habit  of  reading,  and  she  saw  that  the  words 
had  no  meaning  for  him. 

"Don't  take  it  all  so  seriously,"  he  said,  leaning  over 
as  if  he  might  plead  with  her.  "  The  poor,'  you  know, 
*we  have  always  with  us.' "  He  settled  back  then  as 
one  who  has  said  the  thing  proper  to  the  occasion. 


XVIII 

Although  Marriott  had  promised  Koerner  early  in 
the  fall  that  his  action  against  the  railroad  would  be 
tried  at  once,  he  was  unable  to  bring  the  event  to  pass. 
In  the  first  place,  Bradford  Ford,  the  attorney  for  the 
railroad,  had  to  go  east  in  his  private  car,  then  in  the 
winter  he  had  to  go  to  Florida  to  rest  and  play  golf, 
and  because  of  these  and  other  postponements  it  was 
March  before  the  case  was  finally  assigned  for  trial. 

"So  that's  your  client  back  there,  is  it?"  said  Ford, 
the  morning  of  the  trial,  turning  from  the  window  and 
the  lingering  winter  outdoors  to  look  at  Koerner. 

Koerner  was  sitting  by  the  trial  table,  his  old  wife 
by  his  side.  He  was  pale  and  thin  from  his  long  winter 
indoors;  his  yellow,  wrinkled  skin  stretched  over  his 
jaw-bones,  hung  flabby  at  his  throat.  As  Ford  and 
Marriott  looked  at  him,  a  troubled  expression  appeared 
in  Koerner's  face;  he  did  not  like  to  see  Marriott  so 
companionable  with  Ford ;  he  had  ugly  suspicions ;  he 
felt  that  Marriott  should  treat  his  opponent  coldly  and 
with  the  enmity  such  a  contest  deserved.  But  just  at 
that  minute  Judge  Shadow  came  in  and  court  was 
opened. 

The  trial  lasted  three  days.  The  benches  behind  the 
bar  were  empty,  the  bailiff  slept  with  his  gray  chin  on 
his  breast,  the  clerk  copied  pleadings  in  the  record, 
pausing  now  and  then  to  look  out  at  the  flurries  of 
snow.     Sharlow  sat  on  the  bench,  trying  to  write  an 

289 


^o      THE  TURN   OF  THE   BALANCE 

opinion  he  had  been  working  on  for  weeks.  The  jury 
sat  in  the  jury-box,  their  eyes  heavy  with  drowsiness, 
breathing  grossly.  Long  ago  Hfe  had  paused  in  these 
men ;  they  had  certain  fixed  opinions,  one  of  which  was 
that  any  man  who  sued  a  corporation  was  entitled  to 
damages;  and  after  they  had  seen  Koerner,  with  the 
stump  of  his  leg  sticking  out  from  his  chair,  they  were 
ready  to  render  a  verdict. 

Marriott  knew  this,  and  Ford  knew  it,  and  conse- 
quently they  gave  attention,  not  to  the  jury,  but  to  the 
stenographer  bending  over  the  tablet  on  which  he 
transcribed  the  testimony  with  his  fountain  pen.  Mar- 
riott and  Ford  were  concerned  about  the  record ;  they 
saw  not  so  much  this  trial,  as  a  hearing  months  or  pos- 
sibly years  hence  in  the  Appellate  Court,  and  still  an- 
other hearing  months  or  years  hence  in  the  Supreme 
Court.  They  knew  that  just  as  the  jurymen  w^ere  in 
sympathy  with  Koerner,  and  by  any  possible  means 
would  give  a  verdict  in  his  favor,  so  the  judges  in  the 
higher  courts  would  be  in  sympathy  with  the  railroad 
company,  and  by  any  possible  means  give  judgment  in 
its  favor ;  and,  therefore,  while  Marriott's  efforts  were 
directed  toward  trying  the  case  in  such  a  way  that  the 
record  should  be  free  from  error.  Ford's  efforts  were 
directed  toward  trying  the  case  in  such  a  way  that  the 
record  should  be  full  of  error.  Ford  was  continually 
objecting  to  the  questions  Marriott  asked  his  witnesses, 
and  compelling  Shadow  to  drop  his  work  and  pass  on 
these  objections.  One  of  Marriott's  witnesses,  a  stal- 
wart young  mechanic,  unmarried  and  with  no  respon- 
sibilities, testified  positively  that  the  frog  in  which 
Koerner  had  caught  his  foot  had  no  block  in  it ;  he  had 
examined  it  carefully  at  the  time.    Another,  a  man  of 


THE  TURN   OF  THE   BALANCE      291 

middle  age  with  a  large  family,  an  employe  of  the  rail- 
road company,  had  the  most  unreliable  memory — he 
could  remember  nothing  at  all  about  the  frog ;  he  could 
not  say  whether  it  had  been  blocked  or  not ;  he  had  not 
examined  it ;  he  had  not  considered  it  any  of  his  busi- 
ness. While  giving  his  testimony,  he  cast  fearful  and 
appealing  glances  at  Ford,  who  smiled  complacently, 
and  for  a  while  made  no  objections.  Another  witness 
was  Gergen,  the  surgeon,  a  young  man  with  eye- 
glasses, a  tiny  gold  chain,  and  a  scant  black  beard 
trimmed  closely  to  his  pale  skin  and  pointed  after  the 
French  fashion.  He  retained  his  overcoat  and  kept 
on  his  glasses  while  he  testified,  as  if  he  must  get 
through  with  this  business  and  return  to  his  practice 
as  quickly  as  possible.  With  the  greatest  care  he 
couched  all  his  testimony  in  scientific  phrases. 

"I  was  summoned  to  the  hospital,"  he  said,  "at  seven- 
sixteen  on  that  evening  and  found  the  patient  pros- 
trated by  hemorrhage  and  shock.  I  supplemented  the 
superficial  examination  of  the  internes  and  found  that 
there  were  contusions  on  the  left  hip,  and  severe  bruises 
on  the  entire  left  side.  The  most  severe  injury,  how- 
ever, developed  in  the  right  foot.  The  tibiotarsal  ar- 
ticulation was  destroyed,  the  calcaneum  and  astragalus 
were  crushed  and  inoperable,  the  metatarsus  and  pha- 
langes, and  the  internal  and  external  malleolus  were 
also  crushed,  and  the  fibula  and  tibia  were  splintered  to 
the  knee." 

"Well,  what  then?" 

"I  gave  orders  to  have  the  patient  prepared,  and 
proceeded  to  operate.  My  assistant.  Doctor  Remack, 
administered  the  anesthetic,  and  I  amputated  at  the 
lower  third." 


292   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

Doctor  Gergen  then  explained  that  what  he  had  said 
meant  that  he  had  found  Koerner's  foot,  ankle  and 
knee  crushed,  and  that  he  had  cut  off  his  leg  above  the 
knee.  After  this  he  told  what  fee  he  had  charged ;  he 
did  this  in  plain  terms,  calling  dollars  dollars,  and  cents 
cents. 

But  Koerner  himself  was  a  sufficient  witness  in  his 
own  behalf.  Sitting  on  the  stand,  his  crutches  in  the 
hollow  of  his  arm,  the  stump  of  his  leg  thrust  straight 
out  before  him  and  twitching  now  and  then,  he  told  of 
his  long  service  with  the  railroad,  pictured  the  blinding 
snow-storm,  described  how  he  had  slipped  and  caught 
his  foot  in  the  unblocked  frog — then  the  switch-engine 
noiselessly  stealing  down  upon  him.  The  jurymen 
roused  from  their  lethargy  as  he  turned  his  white  and 
bony  face  toward  them ;  the  atmosphere  was  suddenly 
charged  with  the  sympathy  these  aged  men  felt  for 
him.  Sharlow  paused  in  his  writing,  the  clerk  ceased 
from  his  monotonous  work,  and  Mrs.  Koerner,  whose 
expression  had  not  changed,  wiped  her  eyes  with  the 
handkerchief  which,  fresh  from  the  iron,  she  had  held 
all  day  without  unfolding. 

When  Ford  began  his  cross-examination,  Koerner 
twisted  about  with  difficulty  in  his  chair,  threw  back 
his  head,  and  his  face  became  hard  and  obdurate.  He 
ran  his  stiff  and  calloused  hand  through  his  white  hair, 
which  seemed  to  bristle  with  leonine  defiance.  Ford 
conducted  his  cross-examination  in  soft,  pleasant  tones, 
spoke  to  Koerner  kindly  and  with  consideration,  scru- 
pulously addressed  him  as  "Mr.  Koerner,"  and  had  him 
repeat  all  he  had  said  about  his  injury. 

"As  I  understand  it,  then,  Mr.  Koerner,"  said  Ford, 


THE   TURN   OF  THE   BALANCE      293 

"you  were  walking  Homeward  at  the  end  of  the  day- 
through  the  railroad  yards." 

"Yes,  sir,  dot's  right." 

"You'd  always  gone  home  that  way  ?" 

"Sure ;  I  go  dot  vay  for  twenty  year,  right  through 
dose  yards  dere." 

"Yes.    Was  that  a  public  highway,  Mr.  Koerner  ?" 

"Veil,  everybody  go  dot  vay  home  all  right;  dot's 
so." 

"But  it  wasn't  a  street?" 

"No." 

"Nor  a  sidewalk?" 

"You  know  dot  alreadty  yourself,"  said  Koerner, 
leaning  forward,  contracting  his  bushy  white  eyebrows 
and  glaring  at  Ford.  "Vot  you  vant  to  boder  me  mit 
such  a  damn- fool  question  for?" 

The  jurymen  laughed  and  Ford  smiled. 

"I  know,  of  course,  Mr.  Koerner;  you  will  pardon 
me — ^but  what  I  wish  to  know  is  whether  or  not  you 
know.  You  had  passed  through  those  yards  fre- 
quently ?" 

"Yah,  undt  I  knows  a  damn-sight  more  about  dose 
yards  dan  you,  you  bet." 

Again  the  jurymen  laughed  in  vicarious  pleasure  at 
another's  profanity. 

"I  yield  to  you  there,  Mr.  Koerner,"  said  Ford  in 
his  suave  manner.  "But  let  us  go  on.  You  say  your 
foot  slipped  ?" 

"Yah,  dot's  right." 

"Slipped  on  the  frozen  snow?" 

"Yah.  I  bedt  you  shlip  on  such  a  place  as  dot." 

*'No  doubt,"  said  Ford,  who  suddenly  ceased  to 


294   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

smile.  He  now  leaned  forward ;  the  faces  of  the  two 
protagonists  seemed  to  be  close  together. 

"And,  as  a  result,  your  foot  slid  into  the  frog,  and 
was  wedged  there  so  that  you  could  not  get  it  out  ?" 

"Yah." 

"And  the  engine  came  along  just  then  and  ran  over 
it?" 

"Yah." 

Ford  suddenly  sat  upright,  turned  away,  seemed  to 
have  lost  interest,  and  said : 

"That's  all,  Mr.  Koerner." 

And  the  old  man  w^as  left  sitting  there,  suspended  as 
it  were,  his  neck  out-thrust,  his  white  brows  gathered 
in  a  scowl,  his  small  eyes  blinking. 

Sharlow  looked  at  Marriott,  then  said,  as  if  to  hurry 
Koerner  off  the  stand : 

"That's  all,  Mr.  Koerner.    Call  your  next." 

When  all  the  testimony  for  the  plaintiff  had  been  pre- 
sented Ford  moved  to  arrest  the  case  from  the  jury; 
that  is,  he  wished  Sharlow  to  give  judgment  in  favor 
of  the  railroad  company  without  proceeding  further. 
In  making  this  motion,  Ford  stood  beside  his  table,  one 
hand  resting  on  a  pile  of  law-books  he  had  had  borne 
into  the  court-room  that  afternoon  by  a  young  attorney 
just  admitted  to  the  bar,  who  acted  partly  as  clerk  and 
partly  as  porter  for  Ford,  carrying  his  law-books  for 
him,  finding  his  place  in  them,  and,  in  general,  reliev- 
ing Ford  from  all  that  manual  effort  which  is  thought 
incompatible  with  professional  dignity.  As  he  spoke. 
Ford  held  in  his  hand  the  gold  eye-glasses  which 
seemed  to  betray  him  into  an  age  which  he  did  not  look 
and  did  not  like  to  admit.  Marriott  had  expected  this 
motion  and  listened  attentively  to  what  Ford  said.    The 


THE   TURN   OF   THE   BALANCE      295 

Koerners,  who  did  not  at  all  understand,  waited  pa- 
tiently. Meanwhile,  Sharlow  excused  the  jury,  sank 
deeper  in  his  chair  and  laid  his  forefinger  learnedly 
along  his  cheek. 

Ford's  motion  was  based  on  the  contention  that  the 
failure  to  block  the  frog — he  spoke  of  this  failure,  per- 
fectly patent  to  every  one,  as  an  alleged  failure,  and 
was  careful  to  say  that  the  defendant  did  not  admit  that 
the  frog  had  not  been  blocked — ^that  the  alleged  failure 
was  not  the  proximate  cause  of  Koerner's  injury,  but 
that  the  real  cause  was  the  ice  about  the  frog  on  which 
Koerner,  according  to  his  own  admission,  had  slipped. 
The  unblocked  frog,  he  said — ^admitting  merely  for  the 
sake  of  argument  that  the  frog  was  unblocked — was 
the  remote  cause,  the  ice  was  the  proximate  cause ;  the 
question  then  was,  which  of  these  had  caused  Koerner's 
injury?  It  was  necessary  that  the  injury  be  the  effect 
of  a  cause  which  in  law-books  was  referred  to  as  a 
proximate  cause ;  if  it  was  not  referred  to  as  a  proxi- 
mate cause,  but  as  a  remote  cause,  then  Koerner  could 
not  recover  his  damages.  After  elaborating  this  view 
and  many  times  repeating  the  word  "proximate,"  which 
seemed  to  take  on  a  more  formidable  and  insuperable 
sound  each  time  he  uttered  it.  Ford  proceeded  to  eluci- 
date his  thought  further,  and  in  doing  this,  he  used  a 
term  even  more  impressive  than  the  word  proximate ; 
he  used  the  phrase,  "act  of  God."  The  ice,  he  said, 
was  an  "act  of  God,"  and  as  the  railroad  company  was 
responsible,  under  the  law,  for  its  own  acts  only,  it  fol- 
lowed that,  as  "an  act  of  God"  was  not  an  act  of  the 
railroad  company,  but  an  act  of  another,  that  is,  of 
God,  the  railroad  company  could  not  be  held  account- 
able for  the  ice. 


296   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

Having,  as  he  said,  indicated  the  outline  of  his  argu- 
ment, Ford  said  that  he  would  pass  to  a  second  propo- 
sition; namely,  that  the  motion  must  be  granted  for 
another  reason.  In  stating  this  reason,  Ford  used  the 
phrases,  "trespass"  and  "contributory  negligence,"  and 
these  phrases  had  a  sound  even  more  ominous  than  the 
phrases  "proximate"  and  "act  of  God."  Ford  declared 
that  the  railroad  yards  were  the  property  of  the  rail- 
road company,  and  therefore  not  a  thoroughfare,  and 
that  Koerner,  in  walking  through  them,  was  a  tres- 
passer. The  fact  that  Koerner  was  in  the  employ  of  the 
railroad,  he  said,  did  not  give  him  the  right  to  enter  in 
and  upon  the  yards — ^he  had  the  lawyer's  reckless  ex- 
travagance in  the  use  of  prepositions,  and  whenever  it 
was  possible  used  the  word  "said"  in  place  of  "the" — 
for  the  reason  that  his  employment  did  not  necessarily 
lead  him  to  said  yard  and,  more  than  all,  when  Koerner 
completed  his  labors  for  the  day,  his  right  to  remain  in 
and  about  said  premises  instantly  ceased.  Therefore, 
he  contended,  Koerner  was  a  trespasser,  and  a  tres- 
passer must  suffer  all  the  consequences  of  his  trespass. 
Then  Ford  began  to  use  the  phrase  "contributory  neg- 
ligence." He  said  that  Koerner  had  been  negligent  in 
continuing  in  and  upon  said  premises,  and  besides,  had 
not  used  due  care  in  avoiding  the  ice  and  snow  on  and 
about  said  frog ;  that  he  had  the  same  means  of  know- 
ing that  the  ice  was  there  that  the  railroad  company 
had,  and  hence  had  assumed  whatever  risk  there  was 
in  passing  on  and  over  said  ice,  and  that  then  and  there- 
by he  had  been  guilty  of  contributory  negligence ;  that 
is,  had  contributed,  by  his  own  negligence,  to  his  own 
injury.    In  fact,  it  seemed  from  Ford's  argument  that 


THE  TURN   OF.  THE   BALANCE      297 

Koerner  had  really  invited  his  injury  and  purposely 
had  the  switch-engine  cut  off  his  leg. 

"These,  in  brief,  if  the  Court  please,"  said  Ford,  who 
had  spoken  for  an  hour,  "are  the  propositions  I  wish  to 
place  before  your  Honor."  Ford  paused,  drew  from 
his  pocket  a  handkerchief,  pressed  it  to  his  lips,  passed 
it  lightly  over  his  forehead,  and  laid  it  on  the  table. 
Then  he  selected  a  law-book  from  the  pile  and  opened 
it  at  the  page  his  clerk  had  marked  with  a  slip  of  paper. 
Sharlow,  knowing  what  he  had  to  expect,  stirred  un- 
easily and  glanced  at  the  clock. 

During  Ford's  argument  Sharlow  had  been  thinking 
the  matter  over.  He  knew,  of  course,  that  the  same 
combination  of  circumstances  is  never  repeated,  that 
there  could  be  no  other  case  in  the  world  just  like  this, 
but  that  there  were  hundreds  which  resembled  it,  and 
that  Ford  and  Marriott  would  ransack  the  law  libraries 
to  find  these  cases,  explain  them  to  him,  differentiate 
them,  and  show  how  they  resembled  or  did  not  resemble 
the  case  at  bar.  And,  further,  he  knew  that  before  he 
could  decide  the  question  Ford  had  raised  he  would 
have  to  stop  and  think  what  the  common  law  of  Eng- 
land had  been  on  the  subject,  then  whether  that  law 
had  been  changed  by  statute,  then  whether  the  statute 
had  been  changed,  and,  if  it  was  still  on  the  statute 
books,  whether  it  could  be  said  to  be  contrary  to  the 
Constitution  of  the  United  States  or  of  the  State.  Then 
he  would  have  to  see  what  the  courts  had  said  about 
the  subject,  and,  if  more  than  one  court  had  spoken, 
whether  their  opinions  were  in  accord  or  at  variance 
with  each  other.  Besides  this  he  would  have  to  find 
out  what  the  courts  of  other  states  had  said  on  similar 
subjects  and  whether  they  had  reversed  themselves; 


298   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

that  is,  said  at  one  time  something  contrary  to  what 
they  had  said  at  another.  If  he  could  not  reconcile 
these  decisions  he  would  have  to  render  a  decision  him- 
self, which  he  did  not  like  to  do,  for  there  was  always 
the  danger  that  some  case  among  the  thousands  report- 
ed had  been  overlooked  by  him,  or  by  Ford  or  Marriott, 
and  that  the  courts  which  would  review  his  decision, 
in  the  years  that  would  be  devoted  to  the  search,  might 
discover  that  other  case  and  declare  that  he  had  not 
decided  the  question  properly.  And  even  if  the  courts 
had  decided  this  question,  it  might  be  discovered  that 
the  question  was  not,  after  all,  the  exact  question  in- 
volved in  this  case,  or  was  not  the  exact  question  the 
courts  had  meant  to  decide.  It  would  not  do  for  Shar- 
low  to  decide  this  case  according  to  the  simple  rule  of 
right  and  wrong,  which  he  could  have  found  by  look- 
ing into  his  own  heart ;  that  would  not  be  lawful ;  he 
must  decide  it  according  to  what  had  been  said  by 
other  judges,  most  of  whom  were  dead.  Though  if 
Shadow  did  decide,  his  decision  would  become  law  for 
other  judges  to  be  guided  by,  until  some  judge  in  the 
future  gave  a  different  opinion. 

Considering  all  this.  Shadow  determined  to  postpone 
his  decision  as  long  as  possible,  and  told  Ford  that  he 
would  not  then  listen  to  his  authorities,  but  would  hear 
what  Marriott  had  to  say. 

And  then  Marriott  spoke  at  length,  opposing  all  that 
Ford  had  said,  saying  that  the  unblocked  frog  must  be 
the  proximate  cause,  for  if  it  had  been  blocked,  Koerner 
could  not  have  caught  his  foot  in  it  and  could  have 
got  out  of  the  way  of  the  switch-engine.  Furthermore, 
he  declared  that  the  yards  had  been  used  by  the  em- 
ployes as  a  thoroughfare  so  long  that  a  custom  had 


THE   TURN   OF   THE   BALANCE      299 

been  established ;  that  the  unblocked  frog,  according  to 
the  statute,  was  prima  facie  negligence  on  the  part  of 
the  defendant.  And  he  said  that  if  Ford  was  to  sub- 
mit authorities,  he  would  like  an  opportunity  to  submit 
other  authorities  equally  authoritative.  At  this  Shar- 
low  bowed,  said  he  would  adjourn  court  until  two 
o'clock  in  order  to  consider  the  question,  recalled  the 
jury  and  cautioned  them  not  to  talk  about  the  case. 
This  caution  was  entirely  worthless,  because  they 
talked  of  nothing  else,  either  among  themselves  or  with 
others;  being  idle  men,  they  had  nothing  else  to  talk 
about. 

Koerner  had  listened  with  amazement  to  Ford  and 
Marriott,  wondering  how  long  they  could  talk  about 
such  incomprehensible  subjects.  He  had  tried  to  follow 
Ford's  remarks  and  then  had  tried  to  follow  Marriott's, 
but  he  derived  nothing  from  it  all  except  further 
suspicions  of  Marriott,  who  seemed  to  talk  exactly 
as  Ford  talked  and  to  use  the  same  words  and  phrases. 
He  felt,  too,  that  Marriott  should  have  spoken  in  louder 
tones  and  more  vehemently,  and  shown  more  antipathy 
to  Ford.  And  when  they  went  out  of  the  court-house, 
he  asked  Marriott  what  it  all  meant.  But  Marriott, 
who  could  not  himself  tell  as  yet  what  it  meant,  assured 
Koerner  that  an  important  legal  question  had  arisen 
and  that  they  must  wait  until  it  had  been  fully  argued, 
considered  and  decided  by  the  court.  Koerner  swung 
away  on  his  crutches,  saying  to  himself  that  it  was  all 
very  strange ;  the  switch-engine  had  cut  off  his  leg, 
against  his  will,  no  one  could  gainsay  that,  and  the 
only  important  question  Koerner  could  see  was  how 
much  the  law  would  make  the  railroad  company  pay 
him  for  cutting  off  his  leg.    It  seemed  silly  to  him  that 


300    "THE  TURN   OF.  THE  BALANCE  ' 

so  much  time  should  be  wasted  over  such  matters.  Bu£ 
then,  as  Marriott  had  said,  it  was  impossible  for  Koer- 
ner  to  understand  legal  questions. 

By  the  time  he  opened  court  in  the  afternoon,  SKar- 
low  had  decided  on  a  course  of  action,  one  that  would 
give  him  time  to  think  over  the  question  further.  He 
announced  that  he  would  overrule  the  motion,  but  that 
counsel  for  defense  might  raise  the  question  again  at 
the  close  of  the  evidence,  and,  should  a  verdict  result 
unfavorably  to  him,  on  the  motion  for  a  new  trial. 

Ford  took  exceptions,  and  began  his  defense,  intro- 
ducing several  employes  of  the  railroad  to  give  testi- 
mony about  the  ice  at  the  frog.  When  his  evidence  was 
in.  Ford  moved  again  to  take  the  case  from  the  jury, 
but  Sharlow,  having  thought  the  matter  over  and 
found  it  necessary  for  his  peace  of  mind  to  reach  some 
conclusion,  overruled  the  motion. 

Then  came  the  arguments,  extending  themselves  into 
the  following  day ;  then  Sharlow  must  speak ;  he  must 
charge  the  jury.  The  purpose  of  the  charge  was  to 
lay  the  law  of  the  case  before  the  jury,  and  for  an 
hour  he  went  on,  talking  of  "proximate  cause,"  of  "con- 
tributory negligence,"  of  "measure  of  damages,"  and 
at  last,  the  jury  having  been  confused  sufficiently  to 
meet  all  the  requirements  of  the  law,  he  told  them  they 
might  retire. 

It  was  now  noon,  and  the  court  was  deserted  by  all 
but  Koerner  and  his  wife,  who  sat  there,  side  by  side, 
and  waited.  It  was  too  far  for  them  to  go  home,  and 
they  had  no  money  with  which  to  lunch  down  town. 
The  bright  sun  streamed  through  the  windows  with 
the  first  promise  of  returning  warmth.  Now  and  then 
from  the  jury  room  the  Koerners  could  hear  voices 


THE  TURN   OF  THE   BALANCE      301 

raised  in  argument ;  then  the  noise  would  die,  and  for 
a  long  time  it  would  be  very  still.  Occasionally  they 
would  hear  other  sounds,  the  scraping  of  a  chair  on  the 
floor,  once  a  noise  as  of  some  one  pounding  a  table; 
voices  were  raised  again,  then  it  grew  still.  And 
Koerner  and  his  wife  waited. 

At  half-past  one  the  bailiff  returned. 

"Any  sign  ?"  he  asked  Koerner. 

**Dey  was  some  fightin'." 

"They'll  take  their  time,"  said  the  bailiff. 

"Vot  you  t'ink?"  Koerner  ventured  to  ask. 

"Oh,  you'll  win,"  said  the  bailiff.  But  Koerner  was 
not  so  sure  about  that. 

At  two  o'clock  Sharlow  returned  and  court  began 
again.  Another  jury  was  called,  another  case  opened, 
Koerner  gave  place  to  another  man  who  was  to  ex- 
change his  present  troubles  for  the  more  annoying  ones 
the  law  would  give  him ;  to  experience  Koerner's  per- 
plexity, doubt,  confusion,  and  hope  changing  constant- 
ly to  fear.  Other  lawyers  began  other  wrangles  over 
other  questions  of  law. 

At  three  o'clock  there  was  a  loud  pounding  on  the 
door  of  the  jury  room.  Every  one  in  the  court-room 
turned  with  sudden  expectation.  The  bailiff  drew  out 
his  keys,  unlocked  the  door,  spoke  to  the  men  inside, 
and  then  went  to  telephone  to  Marriott  and  Ford. 
After  a  while  Marriott  appeared,  but  Ford  had  not  ar- 
rived. Marriott  went  out  himself  and  telephoned; 
Ford  had  not  returned  from  luncheon.  He  telephoned 
to  Ford's  home,  then  to  his  club.  Finally,  at  four 
o'clock.  Ford  came. 

After  the  verdict  Marriott  went  to  the  Koerners  and 
jvhispered : 


302   THE  TURN  OP   THE  BALANCE 

"We  can  go  now." 

The  old  man  got  up,  his  wife  helped  him  into  liis 
overcoat,  and  he  swung  out  of  the  court-room  on  his 
crutches.  He  had  tried  to  understand  what  the  clerk 
had  read,  but  could  not.  He  thought  he  had  lost  liis 
case. 

"Well,  I  congratulate  you,  Mr.  Koerner,"  said  Mar- 
riott when  they  were  in  the  corridor. 

"How's  dot  ?"  asked  the  old  man  harshly. 

"Why,  you  won." 

"Me?" 

"Yes;  didn't  you  know?" 

"Ivin?" 

"Certainly,  you  won.  You  get  eight  thousand  dol- 
lars." 

The  old  man  stopped  and  looked  at  Marriott. 

"Eight  t'ousandt?" 

"Yes,  eight  thousand." 

"I  get  eight  t'ousandt,  huh?" 

"Yes." 

A  smile  transfigured  the  heavy,  bony  face. 

"Py  Gott !"  he  said.    "Dot's  goodt,  hain't  it  ?" 


XIX 

Late  in  April  they  argued  the  motion  for  a  new  trial, 
and  on  the  last  day  of  the  term  Sharlow  announced  his 
decision,  overruling  the  motion,  and  entered  judgment 
in  Koerner's  favor.  Though  Marriott  knew  that  Ford 
would  carry  the  case  up  on  error,  he  had,  nevertheless, 
won  a  victory,  and  he  felt  so  confident  and  happy  that 
he  decided  to  go  to  Koerner  and  tell  him  the  good 
news.  The  sky  had  lost  the  pale  shimmer  of  the  early 
spring  and  taken  on  a  deeper  tone.  The  sun  was  warm, 
and  in  the  narrow  plots  between  the  wooden  sidewalks 
and  the  curb,  the  grass  was  green.  The  trees  wore  a 
gauze  of  yellowish  green,  the  first  glow  qf  living  color 
they  soon  must  show.  A  robin  sprang  swiftly  across  a 
lawn,  stopping  to  swell  his  ruddy  breast.  Marriott 
made  a  short  cut  across  a  commons,  beyond  which  the 
spire  of  a  Polish  Catholic  church  rose  into  the  sky. 
The  bare  spots  of  the  commons,  warmed  by  the  sun, 
exhaled  the  strong  odor  of  the  earth,  recalling  memo- 
ries of  other  springs.  Some  shaggy  boys,  truants, 
doubtless,  too  wise  to  go  to  school  on  such  a  day,  were 
playing  a  game  of  base-ball,  writhing  and  contorting 
their  little  bodies,  raging  and  screaming  and  swearing 
at  one  another  in  innocent  imitation  of  the  profanity  of 
their  fathers  and  elder  brothers. 

Koerner,  supported  by  one  crutch,  was  leaning  over 
his  front  gate.  He  was  recklessly  bareheaded;  his 
white,  disordered  hair  maintained  its  aspect  of  fierce- 

303 


304   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

ness,  and,  as  Marriott  drew  near,  he  turned  on  him  his 
great,  bony  face,  without  a  change  of  expression. 

"Well,  Mr.  Koerner,  this  is  a  fine  day,  isn't  it?"  said 
Marriott  as  he  took  the  old  man's  hand.  "I  guess  the 
spring's  here  at  last." 

Koerner  took  his  constant  pipe  from  his  lips,  raised 
his  eyes  and  made  an  observation  of  the  heavens. 

"Veil,  dot  veat'er's  all  right."  As  he  returned  the 
amber  stem  to  his  yellow  teeth,  Marriott  saw  that  the 
blackened  bowl  of  the  pipe  was  empty.  The  old  man 
let  Marriott  in  at  his  gate,  then  swinging  about,  went 
to  the  stoop,  lowered  himself  from  his  crutches  and  sat 
down,  with  a  grunt  at  the  effort. 

"Aren't  you  afraid  for  your  rheumatism?"  asked 
Marriott,  sitting  down  beside  him. 

"Vot's  up  now  again,  huh?"  demanded  Koerner,  ig- 
noring this  solicitude  for  his  health. 

"Nothing  but  good  news  this  time,"  Marriott  was 
glad  to  say. 

"Goodt  news,  huh?" 

"Yes,  good  news.  The  judge  has  refused  the  motion 
for  a  new  trial." 

"Den  I  vin  for  sure  dis  time,  ain't  it  ?" 

"Yes,  this  time,"  said  Marriott. 

"I  get  my  money  now  right  avay  ?" 

"Well,  pretty  soon." 

The  old  man  turned  to  Marriott  with  his  blue  eyes 
narrowed  beneath  the  white  brush  of  his  eyebrows. 

"Vot  you  mean  by  dot  pretty  soon  ?" 

"Well,  you  see,  Mr.  Koerner,  as  I  explained  to  you," 
— Marriott  set  himself  to  the  task  of  explaining  the 
latest  development  in  the  case ;  he  tried  to  present  the 
proceedings  in  the  Appellate  Court  in  their  most  en- 


THE  JURN.  OR  THE  BALANCE      305 

couraging  HgHt,  but  He  was  conscious  that  Koerner 
understood  nothing  save  that  there  were  to  be  more 
delays. 

"But  we  must  be  patient,  Mr.  Koerner,"  he  said.  "It 
will  come  out  all  right." 

Koerner  made  no  reply.  To  Marriott  his  figure  was 
infinitely  pathetic.  He  looked  at  the  great  face,  lined 
and  seamed;  the  eyes  that  saw  nothing — not  the  little 
yard  before  them  where  the  turf  was  growing  green, 
not  the  blackened  limbs  of  a  little  maple  tree  struggling 
to  put  forth  its  leaves,  not  the  warm  mud  glistening  in 
the  sun,  not  the  dirty  street  piled  with  ashes,  not  the 
broken  fence  and  sidewalk,  the  ugly  little  houses  across 
the  street,  nor  the  purple  sky  above  them — they  were 
gazing  beyond  all  this.  Marriott  looked  at  the  old 
man's  lips;  they  trembled,  then  they  puckered  them- 
selves about  the  stem  of  his  pipe  and  puffed  automati- 
cally.   Marriott,  hanging  his  head,  lighted  a  cigarette. 

"Mis'er  Marriott,"  Koerner  began  presently,  "I  been 
an  oldt  man.  I  been  an  hones'  man ;  py  Gott !  I  vork 
hardt  efery  day.  I  haf  blenty  troubles.  I  t'ink  ven  I 
lose  dot  damned  oldt  leg,  I  t'ink,  veil,  maybe  I  get 
some  rest  now  bretty  soon.  I  say  to  dot  oldt  leg :  *You 
bin  achin'  mit  der  rheumatiz  all  dose  year,  now  you  haf 
to  kvit,  py  Gott !'  I  t'ink  I  get  some  rest,  I  get  some 
dose  damages,  den  maybe  I  take  der  oldt  voman  undt 
dose  childer  undt  I  go  out  to  der  oldt  gountry;  I  go 
back  to  Chairmany,  undt  I  haf  some  peace  dere.  Veil 
—dot's  been  a  long  time,  Mis'er  Marriott ;  dot  law,  he's 
a  damn  humpug ;  he's  bin  fer  der  railroadt  gompany ; 
he's  not  been  fer  der  boor  man.  Der  boor  man,  he's 
got  no  show.  Dot's  been  a  long  time.  Maybe,  by  undt 
by  I  die — dot  case,  he's  still  go  on,  huh  ?" 


3o6   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

The  old  man  looked  at  Marriott  quizzically. 

"Veil,  I  gan't  go  out  to  der  oldt  gountry  now  any 
more.  I  haf  more  drouble — dot  poy  Archie — veil,  he 
bin  in  drouble  too,  and  now  my  girl,  dot  Gusta — " 

The  old  man's  lips  trembled. 

"Veil,  she's  gone,  too." 

A  tear  was  rolling  down  Koerner's  cheek.  Marriott 
could  not  answer  him  just  then;  he  did  not  dare  to 
look ;  he  could  scarcely  bear  to  think  of  this  old  man, 
with  his  dream  of  going  home  to  the  Fatherland — and 
all  his  disappointments.  Suddenly,  the  spring  had  re- 
ceded again ;  the  air  was  chill,  the  sun  lost  its  warmth, 
the  sky  took,  on  the  pale,  cold  glitter  of  the  days  he 
thought  were  gone.  He  could  hear  Koerner's  lips  puf- 
fing at  his  pipe.    Suddenly,  a  suspicion  came  to  him. 

"Mr.  Koerner,"  he  asked,  "why  aren't  you  smok- 
ing?" 

The  old  man  seemed  ashamed. 

"Tell  me,"  Marriott  demanded. 

"Veil — dot's  all  right.  I  hain't — chust  got  der  to- 
bacco." 

The  truth  flashed  on  Marriott;  this  was  deprivation 
— ^when  a  man  could  not  get  tobacco !  He  thought  an 
instant;  then  he  drew  out  his  case  of  cigarettes,  took 
them,  broke  their  papers  and  seizing  Koerner's  hand 
said: 

"Here,  here's  a  pipeful,  anyway ;  this'll  do  till  I  can 
send  you  some." 

And  he  poured  the  tobacco  into  Koerner's  bare  palm. 
The  old  man  took  the  tobacco,  pressed  it  into  the  bowl 
of  his  pipe,  Marriott  struck  a  match,  Koerner  lighted 
his  pipe,  and  sat  a  few  moments  in  the  comfort  of 
smoking  again. 


THE   TURN   OF   THE  BALANCE      307 

"Dot's  bretty  goodt,"  he  said  presently.  He  smoked 
on.  After  a  while  he  turned  to  Marriott  with  his  old 
shrewd,  humorous  glance,  his  blue  eyes  twinkled,  his 
white  brows  twitched. 

"Veil,  Mis'er  Marriott,  you  nefer  t'ought  you  see  der 
oldt  man  shmokin'  cigarettes,  huh  ?" 

Marriott  laughed,  glad  of  the  relief,  and  glad  of  the 
new  sense  of  comradeship  the  tobacco  brought. 

"Now  tell  me,  Mr.  Koerner,"  he  said,  "are  you  in 
want — do  you  need  anything  ?" 

Koerner  did  not  reply  at  once. 

"Come  on  now,"  Marriott  urged,  "tell  me — ^have  you 
anything  to  eat  in  the  house  ?" 

"Veil,"  Koerner  admitted,  "not  much." 

"Have  you  anything  at  all  to  eat?"  .   ;-;•> 

Koerner  hung  his  head  then,  in  the  strange,  unac- 
countable shame  people  feel  in  poverty. 

"Veil,  I — undt  der  oldt  voman — ve  hafn't  had  any- 
t'ing  to  eat  to-day." 

"And  the  children?" 

" Ve  gif  dem  der  last  dis  morning  alreadty." 

Marriott  closed  his  eyes  in  the  pain  of  it.  He  re- 
proached himself  that  he  who  argued  so  glibly  that  peo- 
ple in  general  lack  the  cultured  imagination  that  would 
enable  them  to  realize  the  plight  of  the  submerged 
poor,  should  have  had  this  condition  so  long  under  his 
very  eyes  and  not  have  seen  it.  He  was  humbled,  and 
then  he  was  angry  with  himself — an  anger  he  was  in- 
stantly able  to  change  into  an  anger  with  Koerner. 

"Well,  Mr.  Koerner,"  he  said.  "I  don't  know  that  I 
ought  to  sympathize  with  you,  after  all.  You  might 
have  told  me ;  you  might  have  known  I  should  be  glad 
to  help  you ;  y<m  might  have  saved  me — " 


3o8   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

He  was  about  to  add  "the  pain,"  but  he  recognized 
the  selfishness  of  this  view,  and  paused. 

"I'll  help  you,  of  course,"  he  went  on.  "My  God, 
man,  you  mustn't  go  hungry !  Won't  the  grocer  trust 
you?" 

The  old  man  was  humbled  now,  and  this  humility, 
this  final  acquiescense  and  submission,  this  rare  spirit 
beaten  down  and  broken  at  last,  this  was  hardest  of  all 
tb  bear,  unless  it  were  his  own  self-consciousness  in  this 
presence  of  humiliated  age — ^these  white  hairs  and  he 
himself  so  young!  He  felt  like  turning  from  the  in- 
dignity of  this  poverty,  as  if  he  had  been  intruding  on 
another's  unmerited  shame. 

"I'll  go  and  attend  to  it,"  said  Marriott,  rising  at 
once. 

"No,  you  vait,"  said  Koerner,  "chust  a  minute.  You 
know  my  boy,  Mis'er  Marriott,  Archie  ?  Veil,  I  write 
him  aboudt  der  case,  but  I  don't  get  a  answer.  He  used 
to  write  eff'ry  two  veeks,  undt  now — he  don't  write  no 
more.  Vot  you  t'ink,  huh?"  The  old  man  looked  up 
at  him  in  the  hunger  of  soul  that  is  even  more  dreadful 
than  the  hunger  of  body. 

"I'll  attend  to  that,  too,  Mr.  Koerner ;  I'll  write  down 
and  find  out,  and  I'll  let  you  know." 

"Undt  Gusta,"  the  old  man  began  as  if,  having 
opened  his  heart  at  last,  he  would  unburden  it  of  all 
its  woes — but  he  paused  and  shook  his  head  slowly. 
"Dot's  no  use,  I  guess.  De  veat'er's  getting  bedder 
now,  undt  maybe  I  get  out  some ;  maybe  I  look  her  up 
undt  find  her." 

"You  don't  know  where  she  is  ?" 

The  white  head  shook  again. 

"She's  go  avay — she's  got  in  trouble,  too." 


THE  TURN   OF  THE   BALANCE      309 

In  trouble!  It  was  all  the  same  to  him — ^poverty, 
hunger,  misfortune,  guilt,  frailty,  false  steps,  crime,  sin 
— to  these  wise  poor,  thought  Marriott,  it  was  all  just 
''trouble/' 

"But  it  will  be  all  right,"  he  said,  "and  I'll  advance 
you  what  money  you  need.  I'll  write  to  the  warden 
about  Archie,  we'll  find  Gusta,  and  we'll  win  the  case." 
He  thought  again — the  old  man  might  as  well  have  his 
dream,  too.  "You'll  go  back  to  Germany  yet,  you'll 
see." 

Koerner  looked  up,  clutching  at  hope  again. 

"You  t'ink  dot  ?    You  t'ink  I  vin,  huh  ?" 

"Sure,"  said  Marriott  heartily,  determined  to  drag 
joy  back  into  the  world. 

"Py  Gott,  dot's  goodt !  I  guess  I  beat  dot  gompany. 
I  vork  for  it  dose  t'irty-sefen  year;  den  dey  turn  me 
off.  Veil,  I  beat  him,  yet.  Chust  let  dot  lawyer  Ford 
talk ;  let  him  talk  his  damned  headt  off.  I  beat  him — 
some  day." 

"I'll  go  now,  Mr.  Koerner.  I'll  speak  to  the  grocer, 
and  I'll  send  you  something  so  you  can  have  a  little 
supper.    No,  don't  get  up." 

Koerner  stretched  forth  his  hand. 

"You  bin  a  goodt  friendt,  Mis'er  Marriott." 

Marriott  went  to  the  grocery  on  the  corner.  The 
grocer,  a  little  man,  very  fat,  ran  about  filling  his  or- 
ders, sickening  Marriott  with  his  petty  sycophancy. 

"Some  bacon?  Yes,  sir.  Sugar,  butter,  bread ?  Yes, 
sir.  Coffee?  Here  you  are,  sir.  Potatoes — about  a 
peck,  sir?" 

Marriott,  with  no  notion  of  what  he  should  buy, 
bought  everything,  and  added  some  tobacco  for  Koer- 
ner and  some  candy  for  the  children.     And  when  he 


310   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

had  arranged  with  the  grocer  for  an  extension  of  credit 
to  Koerner  on  his  own  promise  to  pay — a  promise  the 
canny  grocer  had  Marriott  indorse  on  the  card  he  gave 
him — Marriott  went  away  with  some  of  the  satisfaction 
of  his  good  deed ;  but  the  grace  of  spring  had  gone  out 
of  the  day  and  would  not  now  return. 


XX 


The  reason  why  Archie  had  not  answered  his  father's 
letter  was  a  simple  one.  On  that  spring  afternoon 
while  Koerner  and  Marriott  were  sitting  on  the  stoop, 
Archie,  stripped  to  the  waist,  was  hanging  by  his  wrists 
from  the  ceiling  of  a  dungeon,  called  a  bull  cell,  in  the 
cellar  under  the  chapel,  his  bare  feet  just  touching  the 
floor.  He  had  been  hanging  there  for  three  days.  At 
night  he  was  let  down  and  given  a  piece  of  bread  and 
a  cup  of  water,  and  allowed  to  lie  on  the  floor,  still 
handcuffed.  At  morning  guards  came,  raised  Archie, 
lifted  him  up,  and  chained  his  wrists  to  the  bull  rings. 
Later,  Deputy  Warden  Ball  sauntered  by  with  his  cane 
hooked  over  his  arm,  peered  in  through  the  bars, 
smiled,  and  said,  in  his  peculiar  soft  voice : 

"Well,  Archie,  my  boy,  had  enough  ?" 

McBride,  the  contractor,  who  had  picked  Archie  out 
of  the  group  of  new  convicts  in  the  idle  house  the  day 
after  he  arrived  at  the  prison,  had  set  him  to  work  in  a 
shop  known  as  "Bolt  B."  His  work  was  to  make  iron 
bolts,  and  all  day  long,  from  seven  in  the  morning  until 
five  in  the  afternoon,  he  stood  with  one  foot  on  the 
treadle,  sticking  little  bits  of  iron  into  the  maw  of  the 
machine  and  snatching  them  out  again.  At  dinner- 
time the  convicts  marched  out  of  the  shop,  stood  in 
close-locked  ranks  until  the  whistle  blew,  and  then 
marched  across  the  yard  to  the  dining-room  for  their 

311 


312   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

sky-blue,  their  bread,  their  molasses  and  their  boot-leg. 
Archie  had  watched  the  seasons  change  in  this  yard, 
he  had  seen  its  grass-plot  fade  and  the  leaves  of  its 
stunted  trees  turn  yellow,  he  had  seen  it  piled  with 
snow  and  ice;  now  it  was  turning  green  with  spring, 
just  like  the  world  outside.  Sometimes,  as  they  passed, 
he  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  death-squad — the  men  who 
were  being  kept  until  they  could  be  killed  in  the  electric 
chair — taking  their  daily  exercise,  curiously  enough, 
for  the  benefit  of  their  health.  This  squad  varied  in 
numbers.  Sometimes  there  were  a  dozen,  then  there 
would  come  a  night  of  horror  when  the  floor  of  the 
cell-house  was  deadened  with  saw-dust.  The  next  day 
one  would  be  missing ;  only  eleven  would  be  exercising 
for  their  health.  Then  would  come  other  nights  of  hor- 
ror, and  the  squad  would  decrease  until  there  were  but 
six.  But  soon  it  would  begin  to  increase  again,  and 
the  number  would  run  up  to  the  normal.  Sometimes, 
in  summer,  the  Sunday-school  excursionists  had  an  op- 
portunity to  see  the  death-squad.  Archie  had  seen  the 
children,  held  by  a  sick,  morbid  interest,  shrink  when 
the  men  marched  by,  as  if  they  were  something  other 
than  mere  people. 

Each  evening  Archie  and  the  other  convicts  marched 
again  to  the  dining-room,  and  ate  bread  and  molasses ; 
then  they  sat  in  their  cells  for  an  hour  while  the  cell- 
house  echoed  with  the  twanging  of  guitars  and  banjos, 
mouth-organs,  jews'-harps,  accord  eons,  and  the  rau- 
cous voices  of  the  peddlers — a  hideous  bedlam.  Those 
who  had  hall-permits  talked  with  one  another,  or  with 
friendly  guards.  Sometimes,  if  the  guard  were 
"right,"  he  gave  Archie  a  candle  and  permitted  him  to 
read  after  the  lights  were  out. 


THE   TURN   OF  THE   BALANCE      313 

All  week-days  were  alike.  On  Sunday  they  went  to 
chapel  and  listened  to  the  chaplain  talk  about  Christ, 
who,  it  was  said,  came  to  preach  deliverance  to  the  cap- 
tives. The  chaplain  told  the  convicts  they  could  save 
their  souls  in  the  world  to  which  they  would  go  when 
they  died,  if  they  believed  on  Christ.  Archie  did  not 
understand  what  it  was  that  he  was  expected  to  believe, 
any  more  than  he  had  when  the  sky-pilot  at  the  works 
had  said  very  much  the  same  thing.  It  could  not  be  that 
they  expected  him  to  believe  that  Christ  came  to  preach 
deliverance  to  captives  such  as  he.  So  he  paid  no  atten- 
tion to  the  sky-pilot.  He  found  it  more  interesting  to 
watch  the  death-squad,  who,  as  likely  to  go  to  that 
world  before  any  of  the  others,  were  given  seats  in  the 
front  pews.  Near  the  death-squad  were  several  con- 
victs in  chains.  They  were  considered  to  be  extremely 
bad  and  greatly  in  need  of  religion.  The  authorities, 
it  seemed,  were  determined  to  give  them  this  religion, 
even  if  they  had  to  hold  them  in  chains  while  they  did 
so.  In  the  corners  of  the  chapel,  behind  protecting  iron 
bars,  were  guards  armed  with  rifles,  who  vigilantly 
watched  the  convicts  while  the  chaplain  preached  to 
them  the  religion  of  the  gentle  Nazarene.  The  chap- 
Iain  said  it  was  the  religion  of  the  gentle  Nazarene,  but 
in  reality  it  was  the  religion  of  Moses,  or  sometimes 
that  of  Paul,  and  even  of  later  men  that  he  preached  to 
the  convicts  rather  than  the  religion  of  Jesus.  The  con- 
victs did  not  know  this,  however.  Neither  did  the 
chaplain. 

Yes,  the  days  were  exactly  alike,  especially  as  to 
the  work,  for  Archie  was  required  to  turn  out  hundreds 
of  bolts  a  day ;  a  minimum  number  was  fixed,  and  this 
was  called  a  "task."  If  he  did  not  do  this  task,  he  was 


314   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

punished.  It  was  difficult  to  perform  this  task ;  only  by 
toiling  incessantly  every  minute  could  he  succeed.  And 
even  then  it  was  hard,  for  in  addition  to  keeping  his 
eye  on  his  machine,  he  had  to  keep  his  eye  on  the  pile 
of  bolts  beside  him,  for  the  other  convicts  would  rat; 
that  is,  steal  from  his  pile  in  order  to  lessen  their  own 
tasks.  For  those  bolts  that  were  spoiled,  Archie  was 
given  no  credit ;  every  hour  an  inspector  came  around, 
looked  the  bolts  over  and  threw  out  those  that  were  de- 
fective. For  this  toil,  which  was  unpaid  and  in  which 
he  took  no  pride  and  found  no  joy  because  it  was  ugly 
and  without  any  result  to  him,  Archie  felt  nothing  but 
loathing.  This  feeling  was  common  among  all  the  men 
in  the  shop;  they  resorted  to  all  sorts  of  devices  to 
escape  it;  some  of  them  allowed  the  machines  to  snip 
off  the  ends  of  their  fingers  so  they  could  work  no 
more ;  others  found  a  friend  in  Sweeny,  the  confidence 
man  who  was  serving  a  five-year  sentence  and  was  de- 
tailed as  a  steward  in  the  hospital.  When  they  were 
in  the  hospital.  Sweeny  would  burn  the  end  of  a  finger 
with  acid,  rub  dirt  on  it,  and  when  it  festered,  amputate 
the  finger. 

Belden,  who  worked  a  machine  next  to  Archie,  did 
that;  but  only  as  a  last  resort. 

*Tt's  no  use  for  me  to  learn  this  trade,"  he  said  to 
Archie  one  day  when  the  guard  was  at  the  other  end 
of  the  shop. 

"Why  not?" 

"  'Cause  I'll  be  on  tHe  street  in  two  months ;  my 
mouthpiece's  going  to  take  my  case  to  the  Supreme 
Court,  and  he's  sure  to  have  it  reversed.  All  I  got  to 
do's  to  raise  a  hundred  and  fifty  case;  I've  written 
my  mother,  and  she's  already  saved  up  seventy-eight. 


THE   TURN   OF   THE   BALANCE      315 

There's  nothing  to  it.  Me  learn  to  make  these  damned 
bolts  for  McBride  ?  I  guess  not !" 
,  Belden  talked  a  great  deal  about  his  case  in  the  Su- 
preme Court.  Many  of  the  convicts  did  that.  They 
did  everything  to  raise  money  for  their  lawyers.  After 
Belden's  attorney  had  taken  the  case  up,  and  failed, 
Belden  made  application  for  pardon;  and  this  required 
more  money.  His  mother  v^as  saving  up  again.  But 
this  failed  also ;  then  Belden  feigned  sickness,  was  sent 
to  the  hospital ;  and  they  all  admired  him  for  his  suc- 
cess. 

Archie  was  sick  once,  and  after  three  sick  calls — ^he 
was,  in  reality,  utterly  miserable  and  suflfered  greatly 
— the  physician,  who,  like  every  one  else  in  the  peni- 
tentiary, was  controlled  by  the  contractors,  gave  in  and 
sent  him  to  the  hospital.  Though  the  hospital  was  a 
filthy  place,  Archie  for  two  days  enjoyed  the  rest  he 
found  there.  Then  Sweeny  told  him  that  the  bed  he 
occupied  had  not  been  changed  since  a  consumptive 
had  died  in  it  the  day  before  Archie  arrived. 

"You  stick  to  that  pad,''  said  Sweeny,  "and  the 
croakers'll  be  peddling  your  stiff  in  a  month." 

Sweeny  was  accounted  very  wise,  as  indeed  he  was ; 
for  he  held  his  position  by  reason  of  his  discovery  that 
the  doctor  was  supplying  his  brother,  who  kept  a  drug- 
store outside,  with  medicines,  silk  bandages,  plasters 
and  surgical  instruments. 

Archie  recovered  then  and  went  back  to  Bolt  B. 

After  his  return  things  went  better  for  a  while,  be- 
cause, to  his  surprise,  the  Kid,  of  whom  he  had  heard 
in  the  jail  at  home,  was  there  working  at  the  machine 
next  to  his.  The  Kid  had  been  transferred  to  that 
shop  because  he  had  utterly  demoralized  Bolt  A,  where 


3i6      THE  TURN   OF.  THE   BALANCE 

he  had  been  working.  The  little  pickpocket,  indeed, 
had  been  tried  on  all  kinds  of  work — in  the  broom  fac- 
tory, in  the  cigar  factory,  in  the  foundry,  everywhere, 
but  he  could  not  long  be  tolerated  anywhere.  His  pres- 
ence was  too  diverting.  He  was  taken  from  the  broom 
shop  because  he  amused  himself  at  the  expense  of 
a  country  boy  sent  up  for  grand  larceny,  whom,  as  the 
country  boy  thought,  he  was  teaching  to  be  a  prowler. 
In  the  cigar  shop  he  made  another  unsophisticated  boy 
think  that  he  could  teach  him  the  secret  of  making 
"cluck,"  or  counterfeit  money ;  and  he  went  so  far  as  to 
give  him  a  can  of  soft  gray  earth,  which  the  convict 
thought  was  crude  silver,  and  some  broken  glass  to 
give  the  metal  the  proper  ring.  The  convict  hid  this 
rubbish  in  his  cell  and  jealously  guarded  it;  he  was 
to  be  released  in  a  month.  F6r  a  while  the  warden 
employed  the  Kid  about  the  office,  but  one  day  he  said 
to  one  of  the  trusties,  an  old  life  man  who  had  been  in 
the  prison  twenty  years,  until  his  mind  had  weakened 
under  the  confinement : 

"What  do  you  want  to  stay  around  here  for  ?  Ain't 
there  other  countries  besides  this  ?" 

The  old  man  sniggered  in  his  silly  way,  then  he  went 
to  the  warden,  and  hanging  his  head  with  a  demented 
leer  said : 

"Warden,  the  Kid  said  there's  other  countries  be- 
sides this." 

He  stood,  swaying  like  a  doltish  school-boy  from 
side  to  side,  grinning,  with  his  tongue  lolling  over  his 
lips. 

The  warden  summoned  the  Kid. 

"What  do  you  mean,"  he  said,  "putting  notions  in 
old  Farlow's  head?" 


THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE      317 

The  Kid  was  surprised. 

*'Oh,  come  off,"  said  the  warden  impatiently.  "You 
know — telling  him  there  were  other  countries  besides 
this?" 

"Oh !"  said  the  Kid  with  sudden  illumination.  "Oh, 
now  I  know  what  you  mean !"  And  he  laughed.  "He 
asked  me  where  I  was  from  and  I  told  him  Canada. 
Then  he  wanted  to  know  if  Canada  was  in  this  coun- 
try, and  I  told  him  there  were  other  countries  besides 
this." 

"YouVe  too  smart,  Willie,"  said  the  warden.  "You'd 
better  go  back  to  the  shops." 

They  tried  all  the  punishments,  the  paddle,  the  bat- 
tery, the  water-cure,  the  bull  rings,  but  nothing  availed 
to  break  the  Kid's  spirit.  Then  he  was  put  on  a  bolt 
machine. 

There  was  a  convict  named  Dalton  working  near 
Archie  and  the  Kid.  Dalton  had  but  one  thought  left  in 
his  mind,  and  this  was  that  when  he  got  out  he  would 
go  to  where  he  had  concealed  a  kit  of  burglar  tools.  He 
had  been  the  victim  of  some  earlier  practical  jokers  in 
the  penitentiary,  and  had  had  a  locksmith  fashion  for 
him  tools  such  as  no  burglar  ever  needed  or  used  in  a 
business  in  which  a  jimmy,  a  piece  of  broom-stick  and 
creepers  are  all  the  paraphernalia  necessary.  Dalton 
still  had  fourteen  years  to  serve. 

"Well,  Jack,  how's  everything  this  morning?"  the 
Kid  would  ask  as  soon  as  the  guard  went  down  to  the 
other  end  of  the  shop. 

"Oh,  all  right,"  Dalton  would  reply.  Then  he  would 
grow  serious,  grit  his  teeth,  clench  his  fist  for  emphasis 
and  say :  "Just  wait  till  I  get  home !  By  God,  if  any 
one  springs  that  kit  of  mine,  I'll  croak  him !" 


3i8   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

"Where's  the  plant?"  the  Kid  would  ask.  "In  the 
jungle?" 

"Oh,  you'll  never  find  out!"  Dalton  would  reply 
warily. 

"Some  of  the  hoosiers  or  the  bulls  are  likely  to 
spring  it,"  the  Kid  would  suggest. 

The  possibility  tortured  Dalton. 

"By  God,"  he  could  only  say,  "if  they  do--riI  croak 
'em !" 

"I  wouldn't  do  that,"  said  the  Kid.  "Get  Dutch 
here  to  take  you  out  with  a  tribe  of  peter  men ;  he  can 
teach  you  to  pour  the  soup.  Can't  you  get  a  little  soup 
and  some  strings  and  begin  with  him  now,  Archie  ?" 

"Sure,"  said  Archie,  grinning,  proud  to  be  thus 
recognized. 

"That's  the  grift;  we'll  nick  the  screw;  and  when 
you  go  home  you'll  be  ready  to — " 

"No,"  said  Dalton  determinedly,  "I've  got  them  tools 
planted — but — " 

"Why  don't  you  take  him  out  with  a  swell  mob  of 
guns?"  suggested  Archie. 

"Think  he  could  stall  for  the  dip?"  asked  the  Kid. 
"What  do  you  think,  Jack?" 

"I'll  stick  to  prowlin',"  said  Dalton,  shaking  his  head 
and  muttering  to  himself. 

"He's  stir  simple,"  remarked  the  Kid,  not  without 
pity. 

But  the  Kid  was  tired  of  his  new  occupation. 

"I  don't  believe  I'm  a  very  good  bolt-maker,"  he 
said  to  Archie. 

"You  might  cut  off  a  finger,  or  get  Sweeny — " 

"Nix,"  said  the  Kid.  "Not  for  Willie.  Fll  need  my 
finger.    I'd  do  a  nice  job  of  reefing  a  kick  with  a  finger 


THE  TURN   OF  THE   BALANCE      319 

gone,  wouldn't  I?"  He  looked  at  his  fingers,  rapidly 
stiffening  under  the  rough,  hard  work. 

''Didn't  I  tell  you  to  stop  that  spieling?"  demanded 
a  guard  who  had  slipped  up  behind  him. 

The  Kid  gave  the  guard  a  look  that  expressed  the 
contempt  he  felt  for  him  better  than  any  words. 

"I'll  report  you  for  insolence,"  said  the  guard  an- 
grily. 

"For  what?"  said  the  Kid. 

"Insolence." 

"How  could  you?"  asked  the  Kid  calmly.  "You 
couldn't  spell  the  word." 

The  guard  made  a  mark  on  his  card. 

"You'll  be  stood  out  for  that,"  said  the  guard.  The 
Kid's  face  darkened,  but  he  controlled  himself.  For 
he  had  another  plan. 

A  few  days  later  he  said  to  Archie : 

"Are  you  on  to  that  inspector?" 

"What  for?"  asked  Archie. 

"He's  boostin'  bolts." 

Archie  thought  of  this  for  a  long  time.  It  took  sev- 
eral days  for  him  to  realize  a  new  idea.  The  inspector, 
in  pretending  to  throw  out  defective  bolts,  threw  out 
quite  as  many  perfect  ones.  These  were  boxed,  shipped 
and  sold  by  the  contractor,  who  pocketed  the  entire 
proceeds  without  reporting  them  to  the  authorities. 
The  Kid  had  discovered  this  system  after  a  week  of 
experience  in  having  his  labor  stolen  from  him,  and 
the  inspector,  more  and  more  greedy,  had  grown 
bolder,  until  now  he  was  stealing  large  quantities  of 
bolts ;  and  the  tasks  of  Archie  and  the  Kid  were  becom- 
ing more  and  more  impossible  of  performance.  The 
Kid  was  silent  for  days;  his  brows  contracted  as  he 


320   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

jumped  nimbly  up  and  down  before  his  clanking  ma- 
chine. Then  one  day  when  McBride  was  in  the  shop 
the  Kid  obtained  permission  to  speak  to  him. 

"Mr.  McBride/'  he  said,  "I  want  a  thousand  dol- 
lars." 

McBride  took  his  cigar  from  his  lips,  flecked  some 
dust  from  his  new  top-coat,  and  a  laugh  spread  over 
his  rough  red  face. 

"What's  the  kid  this  time,  Willie?" 

"This  is  on  the  square,"  said  the  Kid.  "I  want  a 
thousand  case,  that's  all." 

McBride  saw  that  he  was  serious  for  once. 

"I'll  blow  it  off,  if  you  don't,"  said  the  Kid. 

"Blow  what  off?" 

"The  graft." 

"What  graft?" 

"The  defectives — oh,  you  know !" 

McBride  turned  ashen,  then  his  face  blazed  suddenly 
with  rage. 

"I'll  report  you  for  this  insolence !" 

"All  right,"  said  the  Kid,  "I'll  report  you  for  steal- 
ing.   It  ain't  moral,  the  sky-pilot  says." 

Archie  saw  the  Kid  no  more  after  that  evening;  he 
was  "stood  out"  at  roll-call ;  and  in  the  way  the  news 
of  the  little  insular  world  inclosed  in  the  prison  walls 
spreads  among  its  inmates,  he  heard  that  the  Kid  had 
been  given  the  paddle  and  had  been  hung  up  in  the  cel- 
lar. When  his  punishment  was  ended,  he  was  trans- 
ferred to  the  shoe  shop  and  set  to  work  making  paper 
soles  for  shoes.  But  he  did  not  work  long.  He  soon 
conceived  a  plan  which  for  two  years  was  to  baffle  all 
the  prison  authorities,  especially  the  physicians.  He  de- 
veloped a  disease  of  the  nerves;  he  said  it  was  the 


THE  TURN   OF  THE   BALANCE      321 

result  of  running  a  bolt  machine  and  of  his  subsequent 
punishment.  The  theory  he  imparted  to  the  doctors, 
in  his  innocent  manner,  was  that  the  blows  of  the 
paddle  with  the  hanging  had  bruised  and  stretched  his 
spine. 

The  symptoms  of  the  Kid's  strange  affliction  were 
these :  he  could  not  stand  still  for  an  instant ;  his  nerves 
seemed  entirely  demoralized,  his  muscles  beyond  con- 
trol. He  would  stand  before  the  doctors  and  twitch' 
and  spasmodically  shuffle  his  feet  for  hours,  while  the 
doctors,  those  on  the  prison  staff  and  those  from  out- 
side, held  consultations.  Opinions  differed  widely. 
Some  said  that  the  Kid  was  malingering,  others  that 
his  spine  was  really  affected.  Day  after  day  the  doc- 
tors examined  him ;  they  tested  the  accommodation  of 
the  pupils  of  the  eyes,  they  had  him  walk  blindfolded, 
they  tested  his  extremities  with  heat  and  cold,  with 
needles,  and  with  electricity.  Then  they  seated  him, 
had  him  cross  his  legs  and  struck  him  below  the  knee- 
cap, testing  his  reflex  action.  Strangely  enough,  his 
reflexes  were  defective. 

"Bum  gimp,  eh.  Doc?"  he  would  say  mournfully. 

For  a  while,  after  the  Kid  had  gone,  Archie  found 
it  easier  to  accomplish  his  daily  task,  for  the  reason 
that  the  inspector  did  not  throw  out  so  many  defective 
bolts.  But  McGlynn,  the  guard  on  Archie's  contract, 
disliked  him  and  was  ever  ready  to  report  him,  and 
Archie,  while  he  did  not  at  all  realize  it  and  could  not 
analyze  it,  developed  the  feeling  within  him  that  the 
system  which  the  people,  and  the  legislature,  and  the 
committee  on  penal  and  reformatory  institutions,  and 
the  state  board  of  charities  had  devised  and  were  so 
proud  of,  was  not  a  system  at  all,  for  the  simple  rea-^ 


322   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

son  that  it  depended  solely  on  men  and  had  nothing 
else  to  depend  on.  And  just  as  the  judge,  the  jury- 
men, the  prosecutor  and  the  policemen  were  swayed  by 
a  thousand  whims  and  prejudices  and  moved  by  count- 
less influences  of  which  they  were  unconscious,  so 
the  guards  who  held  power  over  him  were  similarly 
swayed.  For  each  demerit  he  lost  standing,  and  de- 
merits depended  not  on  his  conduct,  but  on  the  feel- 
ings of  the  guards.  McGlynn  disliked  Archie  because 
he  was  German.  He  gave  him  demerits  for  all  sorts 
of  things,  and  it  was  not  long  before  Archie  realized 
that  he  had  already  lost  all  his  good  time  and  would 
have  to  serve  out  the  whole  year.  And  then  the  in- 
spector grew  reckless  and  bold.  McBride  was  greedy 
for  profits,  and  in  a  few  weeks  the  bolts  under  Archie's 
machine  were  again  disappearing  as  rapidly  as  ever, 
and  his  task  was  wholly  beyond  him.  And  then  a  dull, 
sullen  stubbornness  seized  him,  and  one  morning,  in  a 
fit  of  black  rage,  seeing  the  inspector  throw  out  a  dozen 
perfect  bolts,  he  stopped  work.  The  inspector  looked 
up,  then  signaled  the  guard.    McGlynn  came. 

"Get  to  work,  you !"  he  said  in  a  rage. 

Archie  looked  at  him  sullenly. 

*'You   hear?"    yelled    McGlynn,    raising  his    voice 
above  the  din  of  the  machines. 

Archie  did  not  move. 

McGlynn  took  a  step  toward  him,  but  when  he  saw 
the  look  in  Archie's  eyes,  he  paused. 

"Stand  out,  you  toaster,"  he  said. 
..  .'    f 

f  flThe  next  morning  at  seven  o'clock  Archie  stood, 
with  forty  other  convicts  who  had  broken  rules  or  were 
accused  of  breaking  rules,  in  the  prison  court.    This 


THE   TURN   OF   THE   BALANCE      323 

court  was  held  every  morning  in  the  basement  of  the 
chapel  to  try  infractions  of  the  prison  discipline.  This 
basement  of  the  chapel  was  known  about  the  peniten- 
tiary as  "the  cellar,"  and  as  the  word  was  spoken  it 
took  on  indeed  a  dark  and  sinister,  one  might  almost 
say  a  subterranean  significance.  For  in  the  cellar  were 
the  solitary,  the  bull  rings,  the  ducking  tub,  the  paddle, 
— all  the  instruments  of  torture.  And  in  the  cellar, 
too,  was  the  court.  Externally,  it  might  have  reminded 
Archie  somewhat  of  the  police  court  at  home,  as  it  re- 
minded other  convicts  of  other  police  courts.  It  was 
a  small  room  made  of  wooden  partitions,  and  in  it,  be- 
hind a  rail,  was  a  platform  for  the  deputy  warden.  It 
may  have  reminded  the  convicts,  too,  of  other  courts 
in  its  pitiable  line  of  accused,  in  its  still  more  pitiable 
line  of  accusers.  For  there  were  guards  grinning  in 
petty  triumph,  awaiting  the  revenge  they  could  vicari- 
ously and  safely  enjoy  for  the  infractions  which  never 
could  seem  to  their  primitive,  brutal  minds  other  than 
personal  slights  and  affronts. 

This  strange  and  amazing  court,  based  on  no  law  and 
owning  no  law,  this  court  from  which  there  was  no 
appeal,  whose  judgments  could  not  be  reviewed,  this 
court  which  could  not  err,  was  presided  over  by  Deputy 
Warden  Ball.  He  lay  now  loosely  in  his  chair  behind 
the  railing,  his  long  legs  stretched  before  him,  the 
soles  of  his  big  shoes  protruding,  his  long  arms  hang- 
ing by  his  sides,  rolling  a  cigar  round  and  round  be- 
tween his  long  teeth  blackened  by  nicotine.  He  lay 
there  as  if  he  had  fallen  apart,  as  if  the  various  pieces 
of  him,  his  feet  and  legs,  his  arms  and  hands,  would 
have  to  be  assembled  before  he  could  move  again.  But 
this  impression  of  incoherence  was  wholly  denied  hy^ 


3^4      THE  TURN   OF  THE   BALANCE 

his  face.  The  lines  about  his  mouth  were  those  of  a' 
permanent  smile  that  never  knew  humor;  the  eyes  at 
the  top  of  his  long  nose  were  small  and  glistened  cold- 
ly, piercing  through  the  broken,  dry  skin  of  his  cheeks 
and  eyelids  like  the  points  of  daggers  through  leather 
scabbards.  Such  was  the  deputy  warden,  the  real  ex- 
ecutive of  the  prison,  the  judge  who  could  pronounce 
any  sentence  he  might  desire,  decreeing  medieval  tor- 
tures and  slow  deaths,  dooming  bodies  to  pain,  and  the 
remnants  of  souls  to  hell,  and,  when  he  willed,  invent- 
ing new  tortures.  Ball  was  at  once  the  product  and 
the  unconscious  victim  of  the  system  in  which  he  was 
the  most  invaluable  and  indispensable  factor.  He  had 
been  deputy  in  the  prison  for  twenty  years,  and  he 
stood  far  above  the  mutations  of  politics.  He  might 
have  been  said  to  live  in  the  protection  of  a  civil  serv- 
ice law  of  his  own  enactment.  He  ruled,  indeed,  by 
laws  that  were  of  his  own  enactment,  and  he  enacted 
or  repealed  them  as  occasion  or  his  mood  suggested. 
He  ruled  this  prison,  whether  on  the  bench  in  the 
court  or  scuffing  loose- jointedly  about  the  yard,  the 
shops,  or  the  cell-houses,  with  his  cane  dangling  from 
the  crotch  of  his  elbow,  speaking  in  a  low,  soft,  almost 
caressing  voice,  the  secret,  perhaps,  of  his  power.  For 
his  slow  and  passive  demeanor  and  his  slow,  soft  voice 
seemed  to  visiting  boards,  committees  and  officials  all 
kindness;  and  he  used  it  with  the  convicts,  sometimes 
drawing  them  close  to  him,  and  laying  his  great  hand 
on  their  shoulders  or  their  heads,  and  speaking  in  a 
low  tone  of  pained  surprise  and  gentle  reproach,  just 
as  he  was  speaking  now  to  a  white-haired  and  aged 
burglar,  wearing  the  dirty  stripes  of  the  fourth  grade. 
"Why,  Dan,  what's  this  I  hear?    I  didn't  think  it  of 


THE   TURN   OF   THE   BALANCE      325 

you,  old  chap,  no  I  didn't.    A  little  of  the  solitary,  eh  ? 
What  say  ?    All  right — if  it  must  be.'' 

It  took  Ball  half  an  hour  to  doom  the  men  this  morn- 
ing, and  even  at  the  last,  when  Archie  went  forward, 
when  Ball  had  glanced  at  the  card  whereon  Mc- 
Glynn's  report ''was  written  in  his  illiterate  hand,  he 
said : 

"Ah,"' the  Dutchman!  Well,  Archie,  this  is  very 
bad.  Down  to  the  fourth  grade,  bread  and  water  to- 
day,— ^and  to-morrow  back  to  work,  my  lad.  Mind 
now  I";. 

Archie  changed  his  gray  suit  for  the  reddish  brown 
and  white  stripes,  he  ate  his  bread  and  drank  his 
water,  and  he  went  back  to  the  bolt-shop.  But  he  did 
not  work.  He  would  not  answer  McGlynn  when  he 
spoke  to  him.    He  set  his  jaw  and  was  silent. 

"What,  again !"  said  Ball  the  next  day.  "Well,  well, 
well !    If  you  insist ;  give  him  the  paddle,  Jim." 

When  court  had  adjourned,  they  took  Archie  into 
a  small  room  near  by.  Across  one  end  of  this  room 
was  a  huge  bath-tub  of  wood ;  this,  and  all  the  utensils 
of  torture,  which  in  a  kind  of  fiendish  ingenuity  of 
economy  were  concentrated  in  it,  were  water-worn  and 
white.  On  the  floor  at  the  base  of  the  tub  were  iron 
stocks.  In  these,  when  he  had  been  stripped  naked, 
perhaps  for  additional  shame,  Archie's  ankles  were 
clamped.  Then  he  was  forced  to  bend  forward,  over 
the  bath-tub,  and  was  held  there  by  guards  while  Ball 
stood  by  smoking.  A  burly  negro,  Jim,  a  convict  with 
privileges — this  privilege  among  others — ^beat  him  on 
the  bare  skin  with  a  paddle  of  ashwood  that  had  been 
soaked  in  hot  water  and  dipped  in  white  sand. 
j^  But  Archie  would  not  work. 


326   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

The  next  morning  Ball  patted  him  on  the  head,  and 
said: 

"My  dear  boy!  You  are  certainly  foolish.  He 
wants  the  water,  Jim." 

Again  they  stripped  him  and  forced  him  into  the 
bath-tub.  This  tub  had  many  and  various  devices, 
among  them  a  block  of  wood,  hollowed  out  on  one 
side  to  fit  a  man's  chest  if  he  sat  in  the  tub,  and  as  it 
could  be  moved  back  and  forth  in  grooves  along  the 
top  of  the  tub  and  fastened  wherever  need  be,  it  could 
be  made  to  fit  any  man  and  hold  him  in  its  vise 
against  the  end  of  the  tub,  in  which  quality  of  adjust- 
ing itself  to  the  size  of  its  victim  it  differed  from  the 
bed  of  Procrustes.  And  now  they  handcuffed  Archie, 
fastened  him  in  the  tub,  pressed  the  block 'against  his 
broad,  white,  muscular  chest,  and  while  Ball  and  the 
guards  stood  by,  the  negro  with  the  privileges,  ar- 
rayed now  in  rubber  coat  and  boots,  turned  a  fierce 
slender  stream  of  water  from  a  short  rubber  hose  in 
Archie's  face.  Archie  gasped,  his  mouth  opened,  and 
deftly  the  negro  turned  the  fierce  gushing  stream  into 
his  mouth,  where  it  hissed  and  foamed  and  gurgled, 
filling  his  throat  and  lungs,  streaming  down  over  his 
chin  and  breast.  Archie's  lips  turned  blue;  soon  his 
face  was  blue. 

"I  guess  that'll  do,  Jim,"  said  Ball. 

When  Archie  regained  consciousness  they  sent  him 
back  to  the  bolt-shop. 

But  he  would  not  work. 

The  next  morning  Ball  showed  again  that  tender- 
ness that  appealed  so  strongly  to  the  humane  gentle- 
men on  the  Prison  Board. 

"Why,  Archie!"  he  said.    "Why,  Archie !"    Then  he 


THE  TURN   OF  THE   BALANCE      327 

paused,  rolled  his  cigar  about  and  said:  "String  him 
up,  boys,  until  he's  ready  to  go  back  to  work." 

After  the  guards  had  fastened  his  hands  above  his 
head  in  the  bull  rings,  closed  and  locked  the  door  of 
the  cell  and  left  him,  Archie's  first  thought  was  of 
Curly,  who  had  gone  through  this  same  ordeal  in  an- 
other prison,  and  Archie  found  a  compensation  in 
thinking  that  he  would  have  an  experience  to  match 
Curly's  when  next  they  met  and  sat  around  the  fire  in 
the  sand-house  or  the  fire  in  the  edge  of  the  woods. 
And  then  his  thoughts  ran  back  to  the  day  when  Curly 
had  first  told  him  of  the  bull  rings ;  and  he  could  see 
Curly  as  he  told  it — his  eyes  glazing,  his  face  growing 
gray  and  ugly,  his  teeth  clenching. 

Archie  remembered  more ;  somehow,  vividly,  he  saw 
Curly  tying  a  rope  to  the  running  board  on  top  of  the 
freight-car,  dangling  it  over  the  side  and  then  letting 
himself  down  on  it  until  he  hung  before  the  car  door, 
the  seal  of  which  he  quickly  broke  and  unlocked ;  and 
the  train  running  thirty  miles  an  hour!  No  one  else 
could  "bust  tags"  this  way ;  no  one  else  had  the  nerve 
of  Curly. 

At  first  Archie  found  relief  in  changing  his  position. 
By  raising  himself  on  tiptoe  he  could  ease  the  strain 
on  his  wrists ;  by  hanging  his  weight  from  his  wrists 
he  could  ease  the  strain  on  his  feet.  He  did  this  many 
times;  but  he  found  no  rest  in  either  position.  The 
handcuffs  grew  tight;  they  cut  into  his  wrists  like 
knives.  His  hands  were  beginning  to  go  to  sleep; 
they  tingled,  the  darting  needles  stung  and  pricked  and 
danced  about.  Then  his  hands  seemed  to  have  en- 
larged to  a  preposterous  size,  and  they  were  icy  cold. 
Presently  he  was  filled  with  terror ;  he  lost  all  sense  of 


328      THE   TURN   OF,  THE   BALANCE 

feeling  in  his  arms.  Rubbing  his  head  against  them, 
he  found  them  cold ;  they  were  no  longer  his  arms,  but 
the  arms  of  some  one  else.  They  felt  like  the  arms  of 
a  corpse.  An  awful  terror  laid  hold  of  him.  In  his 
insteps  there  was  a  mighty  pain ;  his  biceps  ached ;  his 
neck  ached,  ached,  ached  to  the  bones  of  it;  his  back 
was  breaking.  The  pain  spread  through  his  w^hole 
body,  maddening  him.  With  a  great  effort  he  tore 
and  tugged  and  writhed,  lifting  one  foot,  then  the 
other,  then  stamped.  At  last  he  hung  there  numb, 
limp,  inert.  In  the  cell  it  was  dark  and  still.  No 
sound  could  reach  him  from  the  outer  world. 

Some  time — it  was  evening,  presumably,  for  time 
was  not  in  that  cell — ^they  came  and  let  him  down.  A 
guard  gave  him  a  cup  of  water.  He  held  forth  his 
hand,  groping  after  it ;  and  he  could  not  tell  when  his 
hand  touched  it.  The  cup  fell,  jangled  against  his 
handcuffs ;  the  water  was  spilled,  the  tin  cup  rolled  and 
rattled  over  the  cement  floor.  And  Archie  wept,  wild 
with  disappointment.  The  guard,  who  was  merciful, 
brought  another  cup  and  held  it  to  Archie's  lips,  and 
he  drank  it  eagerly,  the  water  bubbling  at  his  lips  as  it 
had  once,  years  ago,  when  he  was  a  baby  and  his 
mother  held  water  to  his  lips  to  drink. 

Presently  Ball  came  and  stood  looking  at  him 
through  the  little  grated  wicket  in  the  door. 

"Well,  Archie,  how  goes  it?"  he  said.  "Had 
enough  ?    Ready  to  go  back  to  work  ?" 

Archie  looked  at  him  a  moment.  His  eyeballs,  still 
protruding  from  the  effects  of  the  ducking-tub, 
gleamed  in  the  light  of  the  guard  lantern.  He  looked 
at  Ball,  finally  realized,  and  began  to  curse.  At  last 
he  managed  to  say: 


THE  TURN   OF  THE   BALANCE      329 

"I'll  croak  you  for  this." 
Ball  laughed. 

"Well,  good  night,  my  lad,"  he  said. 
Archie  lay  on  a  plank,  the  handcuffs  still  on  him, 
all  the  night.    In  the  morning  they  hung  him  up  again. 

The  next  day,  and  the  next,  and  the  next, — for  seven 
days, — ^Archie  hung  in  the  bull  rings.  In  the  middle 
of  the  eighth  day,  after  his  head  had  been  rolling  and 
lolling  about  on  his  shoulders  between  his  cold,  swol- 
len, naked  arms,  he  suddenly  became  frantic,  put  forth 
a  mighty  effort,  lifted  himself,  and  began  to  bite  his 
hands  and  his  wrists,  gnashing  his  teeth  on  the  steel 
handcuffs,  yammering  like  a  maniac. 

That  evening,  the  evening  of  the  eighth  day,  when 
the  guard  came  and  flashed  his  lamp  on  him,  Archie's 
body  was  hanging  there,  still,  his  chin  on  his  breast. 
Down  his  arms  the  blood  was  trickling  from  the 
wounds  he  had  made  with  his  teeth.  The  guard  set 
down  his  lantern,  ran  down  the  corridor,  returned 
presently  with  Ball,  and  Jeffries,  the  doctor. 

They  lowered  his  body.  The  doctor  bent  his  head 
to  the  white  breast  and  listened. 

"Take  him  to  the  hospital,"  he  said.  "I  guess  he's 
had  about  all  he  can  stand." 

"God,  he  had  nerve !"  said  Ball,  looking  at  the  body. 
"He  wouldn't  give  in." 

He  shambled  away,  his  head  bent.  He  was  per- 
plexed. He  had  not  failed  since — when  was  it  ? — since 
number  13993  had — died  of  heart  failure,  in  the  hos- 
pital, five  years  before. 


XXI 

It  was  at  Bradford  Ford's  that  night  of  the  wedding 
that  Eades  made  his  proposal  of  marriage  to  Ehzabeth 
Ward.  It  was  June,  court  had  adjourned,  his  work 
was  done,  the  time  seemed  to  him  auspicious ;  he  had 
thought  it  all  out,  arranged  the  details  in  his  mind. 
The  great  country  house,  open  to  the  summer  night, 
was  thronged,  the  occasion,  just  as  the  newspapers  had 
predicted  in  their  hackneyed  phrase,  was  a  brilliant 
one,  as  befitted  the  marriage  of  Ford's  youngest  daugh- 
ter. Hazel,  to  Mr.  Henry  Wilmington  Dodge,  of  Phila- 
delphia. Eades  moved  about,  greeting  his  friends, 
smiling  automatically,  but  his  eyes  were  discreetly 
seeking  their  one  object.  At  last  he  had  a  glimpse  of 
her,  through  smilax  and  ribbons;  it  was  during  the 
ceremony ;  she  was  in  white,  and  her  lips  were  drawn 
as  she  repressed  the  emotions  weddings  inspire  in 
women.  He  waited,  in  what  patience  he  could,  until 
the  service  was  pronounced ;  then  he  must  take  his 
place  in  the  line  that  moved  through  the  crowd  like  a 
current  through  the  sea;  the  bestowal  of  the  felicita- 
tions took  a  long  time.  Then  the  supper;  Elizabeth 
was  at  the  bride's  table,  and  still  he  must  wait.  He 
went  up-stairs  finally,  and  there  he  encountered  Ford 
alone  in  a  room  where,  in  some  desolate  sense  of  neg- 
lect, he  had  retired  to  hide  the  sorrow  he  felt  at  this 
parting  with  his  child,  and  to  combat  the  annoying 

330 


THE   TURN   OF   THE   BALANCE       331 

feeling  the  wedding  had  thrust  on  him — ^the  feeUng 
that  he  was  growing  old.  Ford  sat  by  an  open  win- 
dow, gazing  out  into  the  moonlight  that  lay  on  the 
river  by  which  he  had  built  his  colossal  house.  He  was 
smoking,  in  the  habit  which  neither  age  nor  sorrow 
could  break. 

''Come  in,  come  in,"  said  Ford.  "Fm  glad  to  see 
you.    I  want  some  one  to  talk  to.    Have  a  cigar." 

But  Eades  declined,  and  Ford  glanced  at  him  in  the 
suspicion  which  was  part  of  the  bereaved  and  jealous 
feeling  that  was  poisoning  this  evening  of  happiness 
for  him.  He  knew  that  Eades  smoked,  and  he  won- 
dered why  he  now  refused.  ''He  declines  because  Fm 
getting  old;  he  wishes  to  shun  my  society;  he  feels 
that  if  he  accepts  the  cigar,  he  will  have  to  stay  long 
enough  to  smoke  it.  It  will  be  that  way  now.  Yes, 
Fm  getting  old.  I'm  out  of  it."  So  ran  Ford's 
thoughts. 

Eades  had  gone  to  the  window  and  stood  looking 
out  across  the  dark  trees  to  the  river,  swimming  in  the 
moonlight.  Below  him  were  the  pretty  lights  of  Jap- 
anese lanterns,  beyond,  at  the  road,  the  two  lamps  on 
the  gate-posts.  The  odors  of  the  June  night  came  to 
him  and,  from  below,  the  laughter  of  the  wedding- 
guests  and  the  strains  of  an  orchestra. 

"What  a  beautiful  place  you  have  here,  Mr.  Ford !" 
Eades  exclaimed. 

"Well,  it'll  do  for  an  old — for  a  man  to  spend  his 
declining  years." 

"Yes,  indeed,"  mused  Eades. 

Ford  winced  at  this  immediate  acquiescence. 

"And  what  a  night !"  Eades  went  on.  "Ideal  for  a 
>vedding." 


332   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

Ford  looked  at  him  a  moment,  then  decided  to 
change  the  subject. 

"Well,  I  see  you  struck  pay-dirt  in  the  grand  jury," 
he  said. 

"Yes,"  replied  Eades,  turning  away  from  night  and 
nature  when  such  subjects  were  introduced. 

"You're  doing  a  good  work  there,"  said  Ford;  "a 
good  work  for  law  and  order." 

He  used  the  stereotyped  phrase  in  the  old  belief  that 
"law"  and  "order"  are  synonyms,  though  he  was  not 
thinking  of  law  or  of  order  just  then ;  he  was  thinking 
of  the  radiant  girl  in  the  drawing-room  below. 

Eades  turned  to  the  window  again.  The  night  at- 
tracted him.  He  did  not  care  to  talk.  He,  too,  was 
thinking  of  a  girl  in  the  drawing-room  below;  think- 
ing how  she  had  looked  in  that  moment  during  the 
ceremony  when  he  had  had  the  glimpse  of  her.  He 
must  go  at  once  and  find  her.  He  succeeded  presently 
in  getting  away  from  Ford,  and  left  in  a  manner  that 
deepened  Ford's  conviction  that  he  was  out  of  it. 

He  met  her  at  the  foot  of  the  staircase,  and  they  went 
out  of  doors. 

"Oh,"  exclaimed  Elizabeth,  "how  delicious  it  is  out 
here!" 

In  silence  they  descended  the  wide  steps  from  the 
veranda  and  went  down  the  walk.  The  sky  was  pur- 
ple, the  stars  trembled  in  it,  and  the  moon  filled  all  the 
heavens  with  a  light  that  fell  to  the  river,  flowing  si- 
lently below  them.  They  went  on  to  the  narrow  strip 
of  sward  that  sloped  to  the  water.  On  the  dim  farther 
shore  they  could  see  the  light  in  some  farm-house ;  far 
down  the  river  was  the  city,  a  blur  of  light. 


THE  TURN  OE  THE  BALANCE      333 

"What  a  beautiful  place  the  Fords  have  here !"  said 
Eades. 

"Yes,"  said  Elizabeth,  "it's  ideal." 

"It's  my  ideal  of  a  home,"  said  Eades,  and  then  after 
a  silence  he  went  on.  "I've  been  thinking  a  good  deal 
of  home  lately." 

He  glanced  at  the  girl ;  she  had  become  still  almost 
to  rigidity. 

"I  am  so  glad  our  people  are  beginning  to  appreciate 
our  beautiful  river,"  she  said,  and  her  voice  had  a  pe- 
culiar note  of  haste  and  fear  in  it.  "I'm  so  glad.  Peo- 
ple travel  to  other  lands  and  rave  over  scenery,  when 
they  have  this  right  at  home."  She  waved  her  hand 
in  a  little  gesture  to  include  the  river  and  its  dark 
shores.  She  realized  that  she  was  speaking  unnatural- 
ly, as  she  always  did  with  him.  The  realization  irri- 
tated her.  "The  Country  Club  is  just  above  us,  isn't 
it  ?"  she  hurriedly  continued,  consciously  struggling  to 
appear  unconscious.    "Have  you — " 

He  interrupted  her.  "I've  been  thinking  of  you  a 
good  deal  lately,"  he  said.  His  voice  had  mastery  in 
it.  "A  good  deal,"  he  repeated,  "for  more  than  a  year 
now.  But  I've  waited  until  I  had  something  to  offer 
you,  some  achievement,  however  small,  and  now — I 
begin  to  feel  that  I  need  help  and — sympathy  in  the 
work  that  is  laid  on  me.    Elizabeth — " 

"Don't,"  she  said,  "please  don't."  She  had  turned 
from  him  now  and  taken  a  step  backward. 

"Just  a  minute,  Elizabeth,"  he  insisted.  "I  have 
waited  to  tell  you — that  I  love  you,  to  ask  you  to  be  my 
wife.  I  have  loved  you  a  long,  long  time.  Don't  deny 
me  now— don't  decide  until  you  can  think — I  can  wait. 


334   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

Will  you  think  it  over?  Will  you  consider  it — care- 
fully— will  you  ?" 

He  tried  to  look  into  her  face,  which  she  had  turned 
away.  Her  hands  were  clasped  before  her,  her  fingers 
interlocked  tightly.  He  heard  her  sigh.  Then  with 
an  effort  she  looked  up  at  him. 

"No,"  she  began,  "I  can  not ;  I—" 

He  stopped  her. 

"Don't  say  no,"  he  said.  "You  have  not  considered, 
I  am  sure.  Won't  you  at  least  think  before  deciding 
definitely?" 

She  had  found  more  than  the  usual  difficulty  there 
is  in  saying  no  to  anything,  or  to  any  one;  now  she 
had  strength  only  to  shake  her  head. 

"You  must  not  decide  hastily,"  he  insisted. 

"We  must  go  in."  She  turned  back  toward  the 
house. 

"I  can  wait  to  know,"  Eades  assured  her. 

They  retraced  their  steps  silently.  As  they  went  up 
the  walk  she  said : 

"Of  course,  I  am  not  insensible  of  the  honor,  Mr. 
Eades." 

The  phrase  instantly  seemed  inadequate,  even  silly, 
to  her.  Why  was  it  she  never  could  be  at  ease  with 
'him? 

"Don't  decide,  I  beg,"  he  said,  "until  you  have  con- 
sidered the  matter  carefully.    Promise  me." 

"You  must  leave  me  now,"  she  said. 

He  bowed  and  stood  looking  after  her  as  she  went 
up  the  steps  and  ran  across  the  veranda  in  her  eager- 
ness to  lose  herself  in  the  throng  within  the  house. 
And  Eades  remained  outside,  walking  under  the  trees. 

Half  an  hour  later  Elizabeth  stood  with  Marriott  in 


THE  TURN  OF  THE   BALANCE      335 

the  drawing-room.  Her  face  was  pale;  the  joy,  the 
spirit  that  had  been  in  it  earUer  in  the  evening  had 
gone  from  it. 

"Ah,"  said  Marriott  suddenly,  *'there  goes  John 
Eades.    I  hadn't  seen  him  before." 

Elizabeth  glanced  hurriedly  at  Eades  and  then  cu- 
riously at  Marriott.  His  face  wore  the  peculiar  smile 
she  had  seen  so  often.  Now  it  seemed  remote,  to  be- 
long to  other  days,  days  that  she  had  lost. 

"He's  making  a  great  name  for  himself  just  now," 
said  Marriott.  "He's  bound  to  win.  He'll  go  to  Con- 
gress, or  be  elected  governor  or  something,  sure." 

She  longed  for  his  opinion  and  yet  just  then  she  felt 
it  impossible  to  ask  it. 

"He's  a—" 

"What  ?"  She  could  not  forbear  to  ask,  but  she  put 
the  question  with  a  little  note  of  challenge  that  made 
Marriott  turn  his  head. 

"One  of  those  young  civilians." 

"One  of  what  young  civilians  ?" 

"That  Emerson  writes  about." 

"He's  not  so  very  young,  is  he?"  Elizabeth  tried  to 
smile. 

"The  young  civilians  are  often  very  old;  I  have 
known  them  to  be  octogenarians." 

He  looked  at  her  and  was  suddenly  struck  by  her 
pallor  and  the  drawn  expression  about  her  eyes.  She 
had  met  his  gaze,  and  he  realized  instantly  that  he  had 
made  some  mistake.  They  were  standing  there  in  the 
drawing-room,  the  canvas-covered  floor  was  littered 
with  rose-leaves.  It  was  the  moment  when  the  guests 
had  begun  to  feel  the  first  traces  of  weariness,  when 
the  laughter  had  begun  to  lose  its  spirit  and  the  talk  its 


336      THE  TURK  OF.  THE   BALANCE 

spontaneity,  when  the  older  people  were  beginning  to 
say  good  night,  leaving  the  younger  behind  to  shower 
the  bride  and  groom  with  rice  and  confetti.  Perplexed, 
excited,  self-conscious  after  Eades's  declaration,  feeling 
a  little  fear  and  some  secret  pride,  suddenly  Elizabeth 
saw  the  old,  good-humored,  friendly  expression  fade 
from  INlarriott's  eyes,  and  there  came  a  new  look,  one 
she  had  never  seen  before,  an  expression  of  sudden,  il- 
luminative intelligence,  followed  by  a  shade  of  pain 
and  regret,  perhaps  a  little  reproach. 

''Where  does  Emerson  say — that  ?"  she  asked. 

''You  look  it  up  and  see,"  he  said  presently. 

She  looked  at  him  steadily,  though  it  was  with  a 
great  effort,  tried  to  smile,  and  the  smile  made  her  ut- 
terly sick  at  heart. 

"I — must  look  up  father,"  she  said,  "it's  time — " 

She  left  him  abruptly,  and  he  stood  there,  the  smile 
gone  from  his  face,  his  hands  plunged  deep  in  his 
pockets.  A  moment  he  bit  his  lips,  then  he  turned  and 
dashed  up  the  stairs. 

"Fm  a  fool,"  he  said  to  himself. 

Elizabeth  had  thought  of  love,  she  had  Imagined  its 
coming  to  her  in  some  poetic  way,  but  this — somehow, 
this  was  not  poetic.  She  recalled  distinctly  every  word 
Eades  had  spoken,  but  even  more  vividly  she  recalled 
Marriott's  glance.  It  meant  that  he  thought  she  loved 
Eades !  It  had  all  become  irrevocable  in  a  moment  ; 
she  could  not,  of  course,  undertake  to  explain ;  it  was 
all  ridiculous,  too  ridiculous  for  anything  but  tears. 

Looking  back  on  her  intimacy  with  Marriott,  she 
realized  now  that  what  she  would  miss  most  was  the 
good  fellowship  there  had  been  between  them.  With 
him,  though  without  realizing  it  at  the  time,  she  had 


THE  TURN   OF  THE  BALANCE      337 

found  expression  easy,  her  thoughts  had  been  clear, 
she  could  find  words  for  them  which  he  could  under- 
stand and  appreciate.  Whenever  she  came  across  any- 
thing in  a  book  or  in  a  poem  or  in  a  situation  there  was 
always  the  satisfying  sense  that  she  could  share  it  with 
Marriott;  he  would  apprehend  instantly.  There  was 
no  one  else  who  could  do  this ;  with  her  mother,  with 
her  father,  with  Dick,  no  such  thing  was  possible; 
with  them  she  spoke  a  different  language,  lived  in  an- 
other world.  And  so  it  was  with  her  friends;  she 
moved  as  an  alien  being  in  the  conventional  circle  of 
that  existence  to  which  she  had  been  born.  One  by 
one,  her  friends  had  ceased  to  be  friends,  they  had  be- 
gun to  shrink  away,  not  consciously,  perhaps,  but  cer- 
tainly, into  the  limbo  of  mere  acquaintance.  She 
thought  of  all  this  as  she  rode  home  that  night,  and 
after  she  had  got  home ;  and  when  it  all  seemed  clear, 
she  shrank  from  the  clarity;  she  would  not,  after  all, 
have  it  too  clear ;  she  must  not  push  to  any  conclusion 
all  these  thoughts  about  Gordon  Marriott.  She  chose 
to  decide  that  he  had  been  stupid,  and  his  stupidity  of- 
fended her ;  it  was  not  pleasant  to  have  him  sneer  at  a 
man  who  had  just  told  her  he  loved  her,  no  matter  who 
the  man  was,  and  she  felt,  with  an  inconsistency  that 
she  clung  to  out  of  a  sens^i  of  self-preservation,  that 
Marriott  should  have  known  this;  he  might  have  let 
her  enjoy  her  triumph  for  a  little,  and  then — ^but  this 
was  dangerous ;  was  he  to  conclude  that  she  loved  him  ? 
What  was  it,  she  wondered,  that  made  her  weak  and 
impotent  in  the  presence  of  Eades?  She  did  not  like 
to  own  a  fear  of  him,  yet  she  felt  a  fear ;  would  she 
some  day  succumb?  The  fear  crept  on  her  and  dis- 
tressed her ;  she  knew  very  well  that  he  would  pursue 


338   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

her,  never  waver  or  give  up  or  lose  sight  of  his  pur- 
pose. In  some  way  he  typified  for  her  all  that  was 
fixed,  impersonal,  irrefragable — society  on  its  solid 
rocks.  He  had  no  doubts  about  anything,  his  opinions 
were  all  made,  tested,  tried  and  proved.  Any  uncer- 
tainty, any  fluidity,  any  inconsistency  was  impossible. 
And  she  felt  more  and  more  inadequate  herself;  she 
felt  that  she  had  nothing  to  oppose  to  all  this. 


> 


Book  III 


Four  miles  from  town,  where  a  white  pike  crosses  a 
mud  road,  is  Lulu  Corners.  There  is  little  at  this 
cross-roads  to  inspire  a  name  less  frivolous,  nothing 
indeed  but  a  weather-beaten  store,  where  the  people  of 
the  neighborhood  wait  for  the  big  yellow  trolley-cars 
that  sweep  across  the  country  hourly,  sounding  their 
musical  air-whistles  over  the  fields.  Half  a  mile  from 
the  Corners  two  unmarried  sisters,  Bridget  and  Mar- 
garet Flanagan,  for  twenty  years  had  lived  alone  in 
a  hovel  that  was  invaded  by  pigs  and  chickens  and 
geese.  Together,  these  aged  women,  tall,  bony  and 
masculine,  lived  their  graceless,  squalid  lives,  un- 
touched by  romance  or  tragedy,  working  their  few 
acres  and  selling  their  pork,  and  eggs  and  feathers  in 
the  city.  The  nearest  dwelling  was  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
away,  and  the  neighbors  were  still  farther  removed  by 
prejudices,  religious  and  social.  Thus  the  old  women 
were  left  to  themselves.  The  report  was  that  they 
were  misers,  and  the  miserable  manner  of  their  lives 
supported  rather  than  belied  this  theory;  there  was  a 
romantic  impression  in  a  country-side  that  knew  so 
little  romance,  that  a  large  amount  of  money  was  hid- 
den somewhere  about  the  ugly  premises. 

On  an  evening  in  late  October,  Bridget  Flanagan 
was  getting  supper.  The  meal  was  meager,  and  when 
she  had  made  it  ready  she  placed  a  lamp  on  the  table 
and  waited  for  Margaret,  who  had  gone  out  to  fasten 

341 


342   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

the  shanty  in  which  the  barn-yard  animals  slept.  Mar- 
garet came  in  presently,  locked  the  door,  and  the  sis- 
ters sat  down  to  their  supper.  They  had  just  crossed 
themselves  and  heaped  their  plates  with  potatoes,  when 
they  heard  a  knock  at  the  door. 

"Who  can  that  be,  sister  ?"  said  Bridget,  looking  up. 

*T  wonder  now!"  said  Margaret  in  a  surprise  that 
3vas  almost  an  alarm. 

The  knocking  was  repeated. 

"Mary  help  us!"  said  Bridget,  again  making  the 
sign  of  the  cross.  "No  one  ever  came  at  this  hour  be- 
fore." 

The  knocking  sounded  again,  louder,  more  insistent. 

"You  go  on  to  the  door,  sister,"  said  Bridget,  "and 
let  them  in, — whoever  they  may  be,  I  dunno." 

Margaret  went  to  the  door,  shot  back  the  bolt,  and 
pulled  on  the  knob.  And  then  she  turned  and  cast  a 
look  of  terror  at  her  sister.  Some  one  was  holding 
the  door  on  the  other  side.  The  strange  resistance  of 
this  late  and  unknown  visitor,  who  but  a  moment  be- 
fore had  wanted  to  come  in,  appalled  her.  She  pressed 
her  knee  against  the  door,  and  tried  to  lock  it  again. 
But  now  the  door  held  against  her;  she  strained  and 
pushed,  then  turned  and  beckoned  her  sister  with 
frightened  eyes.  Bridget  came,  and  the  two  women, 
throwing  their  weight  against  the  door,  tried  to  close 
it;  but  the  unknown,  silent  and  determined  one  was 
holding  it  on  the  other  side.  This  strange  conflict  con- 
tinued. Presently  the  two  old  women  glanced  up ;  in 
the  crack,  between  the  door  and  the  jamb,  they 
saw  a  club.  Slowly,  slowly,  it  made  way  against  them, 
twisting,  turning,  pushing,  forcing  its  way  into  the 
room.     They  looked  in  awful  fascination.     The  club 


THE  TURN   OF  THE   BALANCE      343 

grew,  presently  a  foot  of  it  was  in  the  room;  then  a 
hand  appeared,  a  man's  hand,  gripping  the  club.  They 
watched ;  presently  a  wrist  with  a  leather  strap  around 
it ;  then  slowly  and  by  degrees,  a  forearm,  bare,  enor- 
mous, hard  as  the  club,  corded  with  heavy  muscles  and 
covered  with  a  thick  fell  of  black  hair,  came  after  it. 
Then  there  was  a  final  push,  an  oath,  the  door  flew 
open,  and  two  masked  men  burst  into  the  room. 

Three  hours  later,  Perkins,  a  farmer  who  lived  a 
quarter  of  a  mile  away,  hearing  an  unusual  sound  in 
his  front  yard,  took  a  lantern  and  went  out.  In  the 
grass  heavy  with  dew,  just  inside  his  gate,  he  saw  a 
woman's  body,  and  going  to  it,  he  shed  the  rays  of  his 
lantern  into  the  face  of  Bridget  Flanagan.  Her  gray 
hair  was  matted,  and  her  face  was  stained  with  blood ; 
her  clothes  were  torn  and  covered  with  the  mud 
through  which  she  had  dragged  herself  along  the  road- 
side from  her  home.  Perkins  called  and  his  wife  came 
to  the  door,  holding  a  lamp  above  her  head,  shading 
her  eyes  with  her  hand,  afraid  to  go  out.  When  he 
had  borne  Bridget  indoors,  Perkins  took  his  two  sons, 
his  lantern  and  his  shot-gun,  and  went  across  the  fields 
to  the  Flanagans'.  In  the  kitchen,  bound  and  gagged, 
Margaret  lay  quite  dead,  her  head  beaten  in  by  a  club. 
The  two  old  women  must  have  fought  desperately  for 
their  lives.  The  robbers,  for  all  their  work,  as  Per- 
kins learned  when  Bridget  almost  miraculously  recov- 
ered, had  secured  twenty-three  silver  dollars,  which 
the  sisters  had  kept  hidden  in  a  tin  can — the  fatal  for- 
tune which  rumor  had  swelled  to  such  a  size. 

Perkins  roused  the  neighborhood,  and  all  night  long 
men  were  riding  to  and  fro  between  Lulu  Corners  and 


344   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

the  city.  A  calm  Sunday  morning  followed,  and  then 
came  the  coroner,  the  reporters  and  the  crowds.  While 
the  bell  of  the  little  Methodist  church  a  mile  away  on 
the  Gilboa  Pike  was  ringing,  Mark  Bentley,  the  sheriff, 
dashed  up  behind  a  team  of  lean  horses,  sweating  and 
splashed  with  mud  from  their  mad  gallop.  Behind 
him  came  his  deputies  and  the  special  deputies  he  had 
sworn  in,  and,  sitting  in  his  buggy,  holding  his  whip 
in  a  gloved  hand,  waving  and  flourishing  it  like  a 
baton,  Bentley  divided  into  posses  the  farmers  who  had 
gathered  with  shot-guns,  rifles,  pitchforks,  axes,  clubs, 
anything,  placed  a  deputy  at  the  head  of  each  posse 
and  sent  them  forth.  Detectives  and  policemen  came, 
and  all  that  Sunday  mobs  of  angry  men  were  beating 
up  the  whole  country  for  miles.  Some  were  mounted, 
and  these  flew  down  the  roads,  spreading  the  alarm, 
leaving  w^omen  standing  horror-stricken  in  doorways 
with  children  whimpering  in  their  skirts ;  others  went 
in  buggies,  others  plodded  on  foot.  And  all  day  long 
crowds  of  women  and  children  pressed  about  the  little 
house,  peering  into  the  kitchen  with  morbid  curiosity. 
The  crowd  swelled,  then  shrank,  then  swelled  again. 
The  newspapers  made  the  most  of  the  tragedy,  and  un- 
der head-lines  of  bold  type,  in  black  ink  and  in  red,  they 
told  the  story  of  the  crime  with  all  the  details  the 
boyish  imaginations  of  their  reporters  could  invent; 
they  printed  pictures  of  the  shanty,  and  diagrams  of 
the  kitchen,  with  crosses  to  indicate  where  Margaret 
had  fallen,  where  Bridget  had  been  left  for  dead,  where 
the  table  and  the  stove  had  stood,  where  the  door  was ; 
and  by  the  time  the  world  had  begun  a  new  week,  the 
whole  city  was  in  the  same  state  of  horror  and  fear, 
and  breathed  the  same  rage  and  lust  of  vengeance  that 
had  fallen  on  Lulu  Corners. 


II 


Four  days  before  the  Sunday  of  the  tragedy  Archie 
Koerner  finished  his  year's  imprisonment  and  passed 
from  the  prison  within  the  walls  to  the  larger  prison 
that  awaited  him  in  the  world  outside.  The  same  day 
was  released  another  convict,  a  man  aged  at  fifty,  who 
had  entered  the  prison  twenty  years  before.  The  judge 
who  had  sentenced  him  was  a  young  man,  just  ele- 
vated to  the  bench,  and,  intoxicated  by  the  power  that 
had  come  to  him  so  early  in  life,  had  read  the  words, 
"twenty  years,"  in  the  statute  book,  and,  assuming  as 
axiomatic  that  the  words  were  the  atonement  for  the 
crime  the  man  had  committed,  without  thinking,  had 
pronounced  these  words  aloud,  and  then  written  them 
in  a  large  book.  From  there  a  clerk  copied  them  on  to 
a  blank  form,  sealed  it  with  a  gilt  seal,  and,  like  the 
young  judge,  forgot  the  incident.  The  day  the  man 
was  released  he  could  no  longer  remember  what  crime 
he  had  committed.  He  was  old  and  shattered,  and 
had  looked  forward  to  freedom  with  terror.  Time 
and  again  he  had  asked  his  guard  to  report  him,  so 
that  he  might  be  deprived  of  his  good  time  and  have 
the  day  of  release  postponed.  The  guard,  however, 
knowing  that  the  man's  mind  was  gone,  had  refused 
to  do  this,  and  the  man  was  forced  out  into  the  world. 
Having  no  family,  no  friends  and  no  home,  he  clung 
to  Archie  as  to  the  last  tie  that  bound  him  to  the  only 
life  he  knew.     Archie,  of  course,  considered  him  an 

345 


346   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

incubus,  but  he  pitied  him,  and  when  they  had  sold 
their  railroad  tickets  to  a  scalper,  they  beat  their  way 
back  to  the  city  on  a  freight-train,,  Archie  showing  the 
old  man  how  it  was  done. 

At  eleven  o'clock  on  Friday  morning  they  entered 
Danny  Gibbs's  saloon.  Archie  was  glad  to  find  the 
place  unchanged — ^the  same  whisky  barrels  along  the 
wall,  the  opium  pipe  above  the  bar,  the  old  gray  cat 
sleeping  in  the  sun.  All  was  familiar,  save  the  bar- 
tender, who,  in  fresh  white  jacket,  leaned  against  the 
bar,  a  newspaper  spread  before  him,  and  studied  the 
form  sheets  that  were  published  daily  to  instruct  men 
how  to  gamble  on  the  races. 

"Where's  Dan?"  asked  Archie. 

The  bartender  looked  at  him  superciliously,  and 
then  concluded  to  say : 

"He's  not  here." 

"Not  down  yet,  Heh?"  said  Archie.  "Do  you  know 
a  certain  party  called — "  Archie  glanced  about  cau- 
tiously and  leaned  over  the  bar,  " — called  Curly  ?" 

The  bartender  looked  at  him  blankly. 

"He's  a  friend  of  mine — it's  all  right.  If  he  comes 
in,  just  tell  him  a  certain  party  was  asking  for  him. 
Tell  Dan,  too.    Fve  just  got  home — just  done  my  bit." 

But  even  this  distinction,  all  he  had  to  show  for  his 
year  in  prison,  did  not  impress  the  bartender  as  Archie 
thought  it  should.  He  drew  from  his  waistcoat  pocket 
a  dollar  bill,  carefully  smoothed  it  out,  and  tossed  it 
on  to  the  bar. 

"Give  us  a  little  drink.  Here,  Dad,"  he  said  to  the 
old  convict,  "have  one."  The  old  man  grinned  and 
approached  the  bar.  "Never  mind  him,"  said  Archie 
in  a  confidential  undertone,  "he's  an  old-timer." 


THE  TURN   OF  THE   BALANCE      347 

The  old  convict  had  lost  the  middle  finger  of  his 
right  hand  in  a  machine  in  the  prison  years  before,  and 
now,  in  his  imbecility,  he  claimed  the  one  compensa- 
tion imaginable ;  he  used  this  mutilation  for  the  enter- 
tainment of  his  fellows.  If  any  one  looked  at  him,  he 
would  spread  the  fingers  of  his  right  hand  over  his 
face,  the  stub  of  the  middle  finger  held  against  his  nose, 
his  first  and  third  fingers  drawing  down  the  lower  lids 
of  his  eyes  until  their  whites  showed,  and  then  wiggle 
his  thumb  and  little  finger  and  look,  now  gravely,  now 
with  a  grin,  into  the  eyes  of  the  observer.  The  old 
convict,  across  whose  sodden  brain  must  have  glim- 
mered a  vague  notion  that  something  was  required  of 
him,  was  practising  his  one  accomplishment,  his  silly 
gaze  fixed  on  the  bartender. 

When  the  bartender  saw  this  his  face  set  in  a  kind 
of  superstitious  terror. 

"Don't  mind  him,''  said  Archie ;  "He's  stir  simple."    . 

The  bartender,  as  he  set  out  the  whisky,  was  reas- 
sured, not  so  much  by  the  patronage  as  by  Archie's 
explanation  that  he  had  just  come  from  prison.  He 
had  been  at  Danny  Gibbs's  long  enough  to  know  that  a 
man  is  not  to  be  judged  solely  by  his  clothes,  and 
Archie,  as  a  man  reduced  to  the  extremity  of  the  garb 
the  state  supplied,  might  still  be  of  importance  in  their 
world.  While  they  were  drinking,  another  man  en- 
tered the  saloon,  a  short,  heavy  man,  and,  standing 
across  the  room,  looked,  not  at  Archie  and  Dad,  but  at 
their  reflections  in  the  mirror  behind  the  bar.  Archie, 
recognizing  a  trick  of  detectives,  turned  slightly  away. 
The  man  went  out. 
'     "Elbow,  eh  ?"  said  Archie. 

"Yep,"  said  the  bartender.    "Cunningham." 


348   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

"A  new  one  on  me.    Kouka  here  yet  ?" 

"Oh,  yes." 

"Flyin'?"    ' 

"Yep." 

"Well,"  said  Archie,  "give  's  another.  I  got  a  thirst 
in  the  big  house  anyway — and  these  rum  tums."  He 
smiled  an  apology  for  his  clothes.  They  drank  again ; 
then  Archie  said : 

"Tell  Dan  I  was  here." 

"Who  shall  I  say?"  inquired  the  bartender. 

"Dutch." 

"Oh,  yes!  All  right.  He'll  be  down  about  one 
oVlock." 

"All  right.  Come  on.  Dad,"  said  Archie,  and  he  went 
out,  towing  his  battered  hulk  of  humanity  behind  him. 
At  the  corner  he  saw  Cunningham  with  another  man, 
whom  he  recognized  as  Quinn.  When  they  met,  as 
was  inevitable,  Quinn  smiled  and  said : 

"Hello,  Archie !    Back  again  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  Archie.  He  would  have  kept  on,  but 
Quinn  laid  a  hand  on  his  arm. 

"Hold  on  a  minute,"  he  said. 

"What's  the  rap?"  asked  Archie. 

"Well,  you'd  better  come  down  to  the  front  office  a 
^minute." 

Cunningham  had  seized  the  old  man,  and  the  two 
were  taken  to  the  Central  Police  Station.  They  were 
charged  with  being  "suspicious  persons,"  and  spent 
the  night  in  prison.  The  next  morning,  when  they 
were  arraigned  before  Bostwick,  the  old  man  surprised 
every  one  by  pleading  guilty,  and  Bostwick  sentenced 
him  to  the  workhouse  for  thirty  days.    But  Archie  de- 


THE  JURN  OF.  .THE  BALANCE      349 

manded  a  jury  and  asked  that  word  be  sent  to  his  at- 
torney. 

"Your  attorney!"  sneered  Bostwick,  "and  who's 
your  attorney  ?" 

"Mr.  Marriott,"  said  Archie. 

The  suggestion  of  a  jury  trial  maddened  Bostwick. 
He  seemed,  indeed,  to  take  it  almost  as  a  personal  in- 
sult.   He  whispered  with  Quinn,  and  then  said : 

"Fll  give  you  till  evening  to  get  out  of  town — you 
hear?" 

Archie,  standing  at  attention  in  the  old  military  way, 
said: 

"Yes,  sir." 

"You've  got  to  clear  out ;  we  don't  want  you  around, 
you  understand?" 

"I  understand,  sir." 

"All  right,"  said  Bostwick. 

After  Archie  had  bidden  good-by  to  the  old  conyict, 
who  was  relieved  to  get  back  to  prison  again,  and  after 
he  had  been  photographed  for  the  rogues'  gallery — 
for  his  confinement  and  his  torture  had  made  him  thin 
and  so  changed  his  appearance  and  his  figure  that 
his  Bertillon  measurements  were  even  more  worthless 
than  ever — ^he  was  turned  out. 

Archie,  thus  officially  ordered  on,  was  afraid  to  go 
back  to  Gibbs's,  and  when  he  went  out  of  the  Central 
Station  that  Saturday  morning  he  turned  southward 
into  the  tenderloin.  He  thought  it  possible  that  he 
might  find  Curly  at  some  of  the  old  haunts;  at  any 
rate,  he  might  get  some  word  of  him. 

The  morning  was  brilliant,  the  autumnal  sun  lay  hot 
and  comforting  on  his  back,  and  there  was  a  friendli- 
ness in  the  hazy  mellow  air  that  was  like  a  welcome 


350   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

to  Archie,  the  first  the  world  had  had  for  him.  Though' 
man  had  cast  him  out,  nature  still  owned  him,  and  a 
kind  of  joy  filled  his  breast.  This  feeling  was  intensi- 
fied by  the  friendly,  familiar  faces  of  the  low,  decrepit 
buildings.  Two  blocks  away,  he  was  glad  to  see  the 
old  sign  of  Cliff  Decker's  saloon,  with  the  name  paint- 
ed on  the  window  in  crude  blue  letters,  and,  pictured 
above  it,  a  preposterous  glass  of  beer  foaming  like  the 
sea.  More  familiar  than  ever,  was  old  man  Pepper, 
the  one-eyed,  sitting  on  the  doorstep  as  if  it  were  sum- 
mer, his  lame  leg  flung  aside,  as  it  were,  on  the  walk 
before  him,  his  square  wrinkled  face  presenting  a  hor- 
rid aspect,  with  its  red  and  empty  socket  scarcely  less 
sinister  than  the  remaining  eye  that  swept  three  quar- 
ters of  the  world  in  its  fierce  glance.  On  another  step 
two  doors  away,  before  a  house  of  indulgence  fre- 
quented only  by  white  men,  sat  a  mulatto  girl,  in  a  clean 
white  muslin  dress,  her  kinky  hair  revealing  a  wide 
part  from  its  careful  combing.  The  girl  was  showing 
her  perfect  teeth  in  her  laugh  and  playing  with  a  white 
poodle  that  had  a  great  bow  of  pink  ribbon  at  its  neck. 
Across  the  street  was  Wing  Tu's  chop-suey  joint,  de- 
serted thus  early  in  the  day,  suggesting  oriental  calm 
and  serenity. 

On  the  other  corner  was  Eva  Clason's  place,  and 
thither  Archie  went.  He  had  some  vague  notion  of 
finding  Curly  there,  for  it  was  Eva  who,  on  that  morn- 
ing, now  more  than  a  year  ago,  in  some  impotent,  puny 
human  effort  to  stay  the  fate  that  had  decreed  him  as 
the  slayer  of  Benny  Moon,  had  tried  to  give  Curly  a 
refuge. 

The  place  wore  its  morning  quiet.  The  young  bar- 
tender, with  a  stupid,  pimpled  face,  was  moping  sleej>- 


THE   TURN   OF  THE   BALANCE      351 

ily  at  the  end  of  the  bar;  at  Archie's  step,  he  looked 
up.  The  step  was  heard  also  in  the  "parlor"  behind 
the  bar,  revealing  through  chenille  portieres  its  cheap 
and  gaudy  rugs  and  its  coarse-grained  oaken  furni- 
ture, upholstered  in  plush  of  brilliant  reds  and  blues. 
One  of  the  two  girls  who  now  appeared  had  yellow 
hair  and  wore  a  skirt  of  solid  pink  gingham  that  came 
to  her  knees ;  her  thin  legs  wore  open-work  stockings, 
her  feet  bulged  in  high-heeled,  much-worn  shoes.  She 
wore  a  blouse  of  the  same  pink  stuff,  cut  low,  with  a 
sailor  collar,  baring  her  scrawny  neck  and  the  deep 
hollows  behind  her  collar  bones.  In  her  yellow  fingers, 
with  a  slip  of  rice  paper,  she  was  rolling  a  cigarette. 
The  other  girl,  who  wore  a  dress  of  the  same  fashion, 
but  of  solid  blue  gingham,  splotched  here  and  there 
with  starch,  was  dark  and  buxom,  and  her  low  collar 
displayed  the  coarse  skin  of  full  breasts  and  round, 
firm  neck.  The  thin  blonde  came  languidly,  pasting 
her  cigarette  with  her  tongue  and  lighting  it ;  but  the 
buxom  brunette  came  forward  with  a  perfunctory 
smile  of  welcome. 

"Where's  Miss  Clason?"  Archie  asked. 

"She's  gone  out  to  Steve's,"  said  the  brunette.  The 
thin  girl  sank  into  a  chair  beside  the  portieres  and 
smoked  her  cigarette.  The  brunette,  divining  that 
there  was  no  significance  in  Archie's  visit,  and  feeling 
a  temporary  self-respect,  dismissed  her  professional 
smile  and  became  simple,  natural  and  human. 

"Did  you  want  to  see  her  ?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,  I'm  looking  for  a  certain  party." 

"Who?" 

"Well,  you  know  him,  maybe — ^they  call  him  Curly ; 
Jackson's  his  name." 


352   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

The  girl  looked  at  Archie,  exchanged  glances  with 
the  bartender ;  and  then  asked : 

"You  a  friend  o'  hisn  ?" 

"Yes,  I  just  got  home,  and  I  must  find  him." 

"Oh,"  said  the  girl,  wholly  satisfied.  She  turned  to 
the  bartender.  "Was  Mr.  Jackson  in  to-day.  Lew? 
He's  around,  in  and  out,  you  know.  Comes  in  to  use 
the  telephone  now  and  then." 

Archie  was  relieved. 

"Tell  him  Dutch  was  in,  will  you  ?"  he  said. 

"Sure,"  replied  the  girl. 

"Maybe  he's  in  at  Hunt's,"  said  the  thin  girl,  speak- 
ing for  the  first  time. 

"I  was  going  there,'*  said  Archie. 

"I  can  run  in  and  ask  for  you,"  said  the  brunette,  in 
the  kindly  willingness  of  the  helpless  to  help  others. 
"Or,  hold  on, — maybe  Teddy  would  know." 

"Never  mind,"  said  Archie,  "I'll  go  in  to  Hunt's  my- 
self." 

"I'll  tell  Mr.  Jackson  when  He  comes  in,"  said  the 
brunette,  going  to  the  door  with  Archie.  "Who  did 
you  say?" — she  looked  up  into  Archie's  face  with  her 
feminine  curiosity  all  alive. 

"Dutch." 

"Dutch  who?" 

"Oh,  just  Dutch,"  said  Archie,  smiling  at  her  insist- 
ence.   "He'll  know." 

"Oh,  hell!"  said  the  girl,  "what's  your  name?" 

Archie  looked  down  into  her  brown  eyes  and  smiled 
mockingly ;  then  he  relented. 

"Well,  it's  Archie  Koerner.  Ever  hear  of  me  be- 
fore?" 


m 


THE  TURN   OF  THE   BALANCE      353 

The  girl's  black  brows,  which  already  met  across  Her 
nose,  thickened  in  the  eifort  to  recall  him. 

"You're  no  more  wiser  than  you  was ;  are  you,  little 
one  ?"  said  Archie,  and  walked  away. 

He  had  reserved  Hunt's  as  a  last  resort,  for  there,  in 
a  saloon  which  was  a  meeting  place  for  yeggs,  Hunt 
himself  being  an  old  yegg  man  who  had  stolen  enough 
to  retire  on,  Archie  was  sure  of  a  welcome  and  of  a 
refuge  where  he  could  hide  from  the  police  for  a  day, 
at  least,  or  until  he  could  form  some  plan  for  the  fu- 
ture. 

Hunt  was  not  in,  but  Archie  found  King's  wife, 
Bertha  Shanteaux,  in  the  back  room.  She  was  a  wom- 
an of  thirty-five,  very  fleshy,  and  it  seemed  that  she 
must  crush  the  low  lounge  on  which  she  sat,  her  legs 
far  apart,  the  calico  wrapper  she  wore  for  comfort 
stretching  between  her  knees.  She  was  smoking  a 
cigar,  and  she  breathed  heavily  with  asthma,  and,  when 
she  welcomed  Archie,  she  spoke  in  a  voice  so  hoarse 
and  of  so  deep  a  bass  that  she  might  well  have  been 
taken  for  a  man  in  woman's  attire. 

"Why,  Dutch !"  she  said,  taking  her  cigar  from  her 
lips  in  surprise.    "When  did  you  get  home  ?" 

"Yesterday  morning,"  said  Archie.  "I  landed  in 
with  an  old  con,  went  up  to  Dan's — then  I  got  pinched, 
and  this  morning  Bostwick  gave  me  the  run." 

"Who  made  the  pinch?" 

"Quinn  and  some  new  gendy." 

"Suspicion  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Huh,"  said  Bertha,  beginning  to  pull  at  her  cigar 
again. 

"Where's  John?" 


354   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

"Oh,  he  went  up  town  a  while  ago." 

"Is  Curly  here?" 

"Yes,  he's  around.  Just  got  in  the  other  day.  What 
you  goin'  to  do?" 

"Oh,  Fm  waiting  to  see  Curly.  I've  got  to  get  to 
work  and  see  if  I  can't  make  a  dollar  or  two.  I  want 
to  frame  in  with  some  good  tribe." 

"Well,  Curly  hasn't  been  out  for  a  while.  He'll  be 
glad  to  see  you." 

"Is  Gus  with  him?" 

"Oh,  no.  Gus  got  settled  over  in  Illinois  somewhere 
— didn't  you  hear  ?  The  boys  say  he's  in  wrong.  But 
wait !    Curly'll  show  up  after  a  while." 

"Well,  Fm  hipped,  and  I  don't  want  to  get  you  in 
trouble,  Mrs.  Shanteaux,  but  if  Kouka  gets  a  flash  at 
me,  it's  all  off." 

"Oh,  you  plant  here,  my  boy,"  she  said  in  a  mother- 
ly way,  "till  Curly  comes." 

The  tenderloin  awoke  earlier  than  usual  that  day,  for 
it  was  Saturday,  and  the  farmers  were  in  town.  In  the 
morning  they  would  be  busy  in  Market  Place,  but 
by  afternoon,  their  work  done,  their  money  in  their 
pockets,  they  would  be  free,  and  beginning  at  the 
cheap  music  halls,  they,  especially  the  younger  ones, 
would  drift  gradually  down  the  line,  and  by  night  they 
would  be  drinking  and  carousing  in  the  dives. 

Children,  pale  and  hollow-eyed,  coming  with  pitch- 
ers and  tin  buckets  to  get  beer  for  their  awaking  eld- 
ers, seemed  to  be  the  first  heralds  of  the  day ;  then  a 
thin  woman,  clutching  her  dirty  calico  wrapper  to  her 
shrunken  breast,  and  trying  to  hide  a  bruised,  blue  and 
swollen  eye  behind  a  shawl,  came  shuffling  into  the 


THE  TURN   OF  THE   BALANCE      355 

saloon  in  unbuttoned  shoes,  and  hoarsely  asked  for 
some  gin.  A  little  later  another  woman  came  in  to 
borrow  enough  oil  to  fill  the  lamp  she  carried  without 
its  chimney,  and  immediately  after,  a  man,  ragged, 
dirty,  stepping  in  old  worn  shoes  as  soft  as  moccasins, 
flung  himself  down  in  a  chair  and  fell  into  a  stupor, 
his  bloodless  lips  but  a  shade  darker  than  his  yellow 
face,  his  jaws  set  in  the  rigidity  of  the  opium  smoker. 
Archie  looked  at  him  suspiciously  and  shot  a  question- 
ing glance  at  Bertha. 

"The  long  draw?"  he  said  in  a  low  tone,  as  she 
passed  him  to  go  to  the  woman  who  had  the  lamp. 

"Umph  huh,"  said  Bertha. 

*T  thought  maybe  he  might  be — " 

"No,"  she  said  readily.  "He's  right — ^he's  been 
hanging  around  for  a  month. — Some  oil  ?"  she  was  say- 
ing to  the  woman.  "Certainly,  my  dear."  She  took 
the  lamp. 

"Where's  your  husband  now  ?"  she  asked. 

"Oh,  he's  gone,"  the  woman  said  simply.  "When 
the  coppers  put  the  Silver  Moon  Cafe" — she  pro- 
nounced it  "kafe" — "out  of  business  and  he  lost  his  job 
slinging  beer,  he  dug  out." 

Archie,  beginning  to  fear  the  publicity  of  midday, 
had  gone  into  the  back  room  again.  Presently  Bertha 
joined  him. 

"Thought  it  was  up  to  me  to  plant  back  here,"  he 
said,  explaining  his  withdrawal.  "There  might  be  an 
elbow." 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Bertha,  in  her  hoarse  voice,  picking 
up  the  cigar  she  had  laid  on  a  clock-shelf  and  resum- 
ing her  smoking,  "we're  running  under  protection  now. 
That  dope  fiend  in  there  showed  up  two  months  ago 


356   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

with  his  woman.  They  had  a  room  in  at  Eva's  for  a 
while,  but  they  stunk  up  the  place  so  with  their  hops 
that  she  cleaned  'em  out — she  had  to  have  the  room 
papered  again,  but  she  says  you  can  still  smell  it.  They 
left  about  five  hundred  paper-back  novels  behind  'em. 
My  God !  they  were  readers !  Nothing  but  read  and 
suck  the  bamboo  all  the  time;  they  were  fiends  both 
ways.    One's  'bout  as  bad  as  the  other,  I  guess." 

She  smoked  her  cigar  and  ruminated  on  this  exces- 
sive love  of  romanticistic  literature. 

"When  Eva  gave  'em  the  run,"  she  went  on  later, 
"the  coppers  flopped  the  moll — she  got  thirty-sixty, 
and  Bostwick  copped  the  pipe  to  give  to  a  friend,  who 
wanted  a'  ornament  for  his  den.  Since  then  her  hus- 
band comes  in  here  now  and  then — and — why,  hello 
there !    Here's  some  one  to  see  you.  Curly !" 

Archie  sprang  to  his  feet  to  greet  Curly,  who,  check- 
ing the  nervous  impulse  that  always  bore  him  so  ener- 
getically onward,  suddenly  halted  in  the  doorway.  The 
low-crowned  felt  hat  he  wore  shaded  his  eyes ;  he  wore 
it,  as  always,  a  little  to  one  side ;  his  curls,  in  the  morti- 
fication they  had  caused  him  since  the  mates  of  his 
school-days  had  teased  him  about  them,  were  cropped 
closely;  his  cheeks  were  pink  from  the  razor,  and 
Archie,  looking  at  him,  felt  an  obscure  envy  of  that 
air  of  Curly's  which  always  attracted.  Curly  looked  a 
moment,  and  then,  with  a  smile,  strode  across  the  room 
and  took  Archie's  hand.  Archie  was  embarrassed,  and 
his  face,  white  with  the  prison  pallor,  flushed — ^he 
thought  of  his  clothes,  quite  as  degrading  as  the  hide- 
ous stripes  he  had  exchanged  for  them,  and  of  his  hair, 
a  yellow  stubble,  from  the  shaving  that  had  been  part 
of  his  punishment.    But  the  grip  in  which  Curly  held 


THE   TURN.  OF  THE   BALANCE      35;; 

his  hand  while  he  wrung  his  greeting  into  it,  made  him 
glad,  and  Bertha,  going  out  of  the  room,  left  them 
alone.  The  strangeness  there  is  in  all  meetings  after 
absence  wore  away.  Curly  sat  there,  his  hat  tilted 
back  from  his  brow,  leaned  forward,  and  said : 

"Well,  how  are  you,  anyway?  When  did  you  land 
in?" 

"Yesterday  morning." 

"Been  out  home  yet  ?" 

Archie's  eyes  fell. 

"No,"  he  said,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  cigarette  he  had 
just  rolled  with  Curly's  tobacco  and  paper.  "I  was 
pinched  the  minute  I  got  here ;  Quinn  and  some  flatty 
— and  I  fed  the  crummers  all  last  night  in  the  boob. 
This  morning  Bostwick  give  me  orders." 

"Well,  you  can't  stay  here,"  said  Curly. 

"No,  I  was  waiting  to  see  you.  I've  got  to  get  to 
work.    Got  anything  now  ?" 

"Well,  Ted  and  me  have  a  couple  of  marks — a  jug 
and  a  p.  o." 

"Where?" 

"Oh,  out  in  the  jungle — several  of  the  tribes  have 
filled  it  out." 

"Well,  I'm  ready." 

"Not  now,"  Curly  said,  shaking  his  Head ;  "the  old 
stool-pigeon's  out — she's  a  mile  high  these  nights." 

A  reminiscent  smile  passed  lightly  over  Curly's  face, 
and  he  flecked  the  ash  from  his  cigarette. 

"Phillie  Dave's  out," — and  then  he  remembered  that 
Archie  had  never  known  the  thief  who  had  been 
proselyted  by  the  police  and  been  one  of  a  numerous 
company  of  such  men  to  turn  detective,  and  so  had  be- 


358   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

queathed  his  name  as  a  synonym  for  the  moon.    "But 
you  never  knew  him,  did  you  ?" 

*'Who?" 

"Dave — Phillie  Dave  we  call  him ;  he  really  belonged 
to  the  cat — he's  become  a  copper.  He  was  before  your 
time." 

They  chatted  a  little  while,  and  as  the  noise  in  the 
bar-room  increased,  Curly  said : 

"You  can't  hang  out  here.  Those  hoosiers  are  likely 
to  start  something  any  minute — we'll  have  to  lam." 

"Where  to?" 

"We'll  go  over  to  old  Sam  Gray's." 

They  did  not  show  themselves  in  the  bar-room  again. 
Some  young  smart  Alecks  from  the  country  were  there, 
flushed  with  beer  and  showing  off.  Curly  and  Archie 
left  by  a  side  door,  walked  hurriedly  to  the  canal, 
dodged  along  its  edges  to  the  river,  then  along  the 
wharves  to  the  long  bridge  up  stream,  and  over  to  the 
west  side,  and  at  four  o'clock,  after  a  wide  detour 
through  quiet  streets,  they  gained  Sam  Gray's  at  last. 

Sam  Gray  kept  a  quiet  saloon,  with  a  few  rooms  up- 
stairs for  lodgers.  Gray  was  a  member  of  a  family 
noted  in  the  under  world;  his  brothers  kept  similar 
places  in  other  cities.  His  wife  was  a  Rawson,  a  fa- 
mous family  of  thieves,  at  the  head  of  which  was  old 
Scott  Rawson,  who  owned  a  farm  and  was  then  in 
hiding  somewhere  with  an  enormous  reward  hanging 
over  his  head.  Gray's  wife  was  a  sister  of  Rawson; 
and  the  sister,  too,  of  Nan  Rawson,  whom  Snuffer 
Wilson  had  in  mind  when,  on  the  scaffold,  he  said, 
"Tell  Nan  good-by  for  me."  And  in  these  saloons, 
kept  by  the  Rawsons  and  the  Grays,  and  at  the  Raw- 
son  farm,  thieves  in  good  standing  were  always  wel- 


THE   TURN   OF  THE   BALANCE      359 

come;  many  a  hunted  man  had  found  refuge  there; 
the  Rawsons  would  have  care  of  him,  and  nurse  him 
back  to  health  of  the  wounds  inflicted  by  official  bul- 
lets. 

When  Curly  and  Archie  entered,  a  man  of  sixty 
years  with  thick  white  hair  above  a  wide  white  brow, 
in  shirt-sleeves,  his  waistcoat  unbuttoned,  and  his 
trousers  girded  tightly  into  the  fat  at  his  waist,  came 
out,  treading  softly  in  slippers. 

"A  friend  of  mine,  Mr.  Gray,"  said  Curly.  "He's 
right.  He's  just  done  his  bit;  got  home  last  night, 
and  the  bulls  pinched  him.  He's  got  orders  and  I'm 
going  to  take  him  out  with  me.  But  we  can't  go  yet — 
Phillie  Dave's  out." 

The  old  man  smiled  vaguely  at  the  mention  of  the 
old  thief. 

"All  right,"  he  said,  taking  Archie's  hand. 

Archie  felt  a  glow  of  pride  when  Curly  mentioned 
his  having  done  his  bit ;  he  was  already  conscious,  now 
that  he  had  a  record,  of  improved  standing. 

"Who's  back  there?"  asked  Curly,  jerking  his  head 
toward  a  partition  from  behind  which  voices  came. 

"A  couple  of  the  girls,"  said  old  Sam.  "You  know 
'em,  I  guess." 

The  two  women  who  sat  at  a  table  in  the  rear  room 
looked  up  hastily  when  the  men  appeared. 

"Hello,  Curly,"  they  said,  in  surprise  and  relief. 

They  had  passed  thirty,  were  well  dressed  in  street 
gowns,  wore  gloves,  and  carried  small  shopping-bags. 
They  had  put  their  veils  up  over  their  hats.  Archie, 
thinking  of  his  appearance,  was  more  self-conscious 
than  ever,  and  his  embarrassment  did  not  diminish 
when  one  of  the  women,  after  Curly^  had  told  them 


36o   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

something  of  their  plans,  looked  at  the  black  mark 
rubbed  into  Archie's  neck  by  the  prison  clothes  and 
said: 

"You  can't  do  nothin'  in  them  stir  clothes."  Before 
he  could  reply,  she  got  up  impulsively. 

"Just  wait  here,"  she  said.  She  was  gone  an  hour. 
When  she  returned,  her  cheeks  were  flushed,  and  with 
a  smile  she  walked  into  the  room  with  a  peculiar  minc- 
ing gait  that  might  have  passed  as  some  mode  of 
fashion,  went  to  a  corner,  shook  herself,  and  then,  step- 
ping aside,  picked  from  the  floor  a  suit  of  clothes  she 
had  stolen  in  a  store  across  the  bridge  and  carried  in 
her  skirts  all  the  way  back.  Curly  laughed,  and  the 
other  woman  laughed,  and  they  praised  her,  and  then 
she  said  to  Archie : 

"Here,  kid,  these'll  do.  I  don't  know  as  they'll  fit, 
but  you  can  have  'em  altered.  They'll  beat  them  stir 
rags,  anyhow." 

Archie  tried  to  tHank  her,  but  she  laughed  his  plati- 
tudes aside  and  said : 

"Come  on,  Sadie,  we  must  get  to  work." 

When  they  were  away  Archie  looked  at  Curly  in 
surprise.  There  were  things,  evidently,  he  had  not  yet 
learned. 

"The  best  lifter  in  the  business,"  Curly  said,  but  he 
added  a  qualification  that  expressed  a  tardy  loyalty, 
"except  Jane." 

Archie  found  he  could  wear  the  clothes,  and  he  felt 
better  when  he  had  them  on. 

"If  I  only  had  a  rod  now,"  he  remarked.  "I'll  have 
to  go  out  and  boost  one,  I  guess." 

"You  can't  show  for  a  day,"  said  Curly. 


THE  TURN   OF  THE  BALANCE      361 

**I  wish  I  had  that  gat  of  mine.  I  wouldn't  mind 
doing  time  if  I  had  that  to  show  for  it  V* 

"I  told  you  that  gat  would  get  you  in  trouble,"  said 
Curly,  and  then  he  added  peremptorily :  "You'll  stay 
here  till  to-morrow  night ;  then  you'll  go  home  and  see 
your  mother.    Then  you'll  go  to  work.'' 

They  remained  at  Gray's  all  that  Saturday  night 
and  all  the  following  day,  spending  the  Sunday  in  read- 
ing such  meager  account  of  the  murder  of  the  Flana- 
gan sisters  as  the  morning  papers  were  able  to  get  into 
extra  editions. 


Ill 


Sergeant  Cragin,  a  short,  red-haired  Irishman  with 
a  snub  nose  that  with  difficulty  kept  his  steel-bowed 
spectacles  before  his  small,  rheumy  eyes,  had  just  fin- 
ished calling  the  roll  of  the  night  detail  at  the  Cen- 
tral Police  Station  when  the  superintendent  of  police, 
Michael  Cleary,  unexpectedly  appeared  in  the  great 
drill  hall.  Cleary  stood  in  the  doorway  with  Inspector 
McFee ;  his  cap  was  drawn  to  his  eyebrows,  revealing 
but  a  patch  of  his  close-cut  white  hair ;  his  cheeks  were 
red  and  freshly  shaven,  his  small  chin-whiskers  newly 
trimmed.  The  velvet  collar  and  cuffs  of  his  blue  coat, 
as  usual,  were  carefully  brushed,  the  diamonds  on  his 
hig  gold  badge  flashed  in  the  dim,  shifting  light.  The 
men  did  not  often  see  their  chief;  he  appeared  at  the 
station  but  seldom,  spending  most  of  his  time,  pre- 
sumably, in  his  office  at  the  City  Hall. 

"Men,"  he  said,  *T  want  a  word  with  you — about 
this  Flanagan  job.  WeVe  got  to  get  the  murderers. 
TheyVe  somewhere  in  town  right  now.  I  want  you  to 
keep  a  lookout ;  run  in  every  suspicious  character  you 
see  to-night — no  matter  who  he  is — run  him  in.  See 
what  I  mean  ?  We're  going  to  have  a  cleaning  up.  I 
want  you  to  pull  every  place  that's  open  after  hours. 
I  want  you  to  pinch  every  crook  and  gun  in  town.  See 
what  I  mean  ?  I  won't  stand  for  any  nonsense !  You 
fellows  have  been  loafing  around  now  long  enough; 

362 


THE  TURN   OF  THE   BALANCE      363 

by  God,  if  something  isn't  done  before  morning,  some 
of  you'll  lose  your  stars.  You've  heard  me.  You've 
got  your  orders;  now  execute  them.  See  what  I 
mean  ?" 

This  proceeding  was  what  Cleary  called  maintaining 
discipline  on  the  force,  and,  in  delivering  his  harangue, 
he  had  worked  himself  into  a  rage;  his  face  was  red, 
his  cheeks  puffed  out.  The  line  of  policemen  shifted 
and  shuffled;  the  red  faces  became  still  redder,  deep- 
ening at  last  to  an  angry  blue. 

Cleary,  with  their  anger  and  resentment  following 
him,  left  the  drill  room,  descended  the  stairs,  and 
burst  into  the  detective  bureau.  The  room,  like  all  the 
rooms  in  the  old  building,  was  large,  the  ceiling  high, 
and  in  the  shutters  of  the  tall  arched  windows  the  dust 
of  years  had  settled;  on  the  yellow  walls  were  wire 
racks,  in  which  were  thrust  photographs  of  criminals, 
each  card  showing  a  full  face,  a  profile,  and  a  number ; 
there  was  little  else,  save  some  posters  offering  rewards 
for  fugitives. 

The  detectives  who  had  been  on  duty  all  the  day 
were  preparing  to  leave ;  those  who  were  to  be  on  duty 
that  night  were  there;  it  was  the  hour  when  the  day 
force  and  the  night  force  gathered  for  a  moment,  but 
this  evening  the  usual  good  nature,  the  rude  joking 
and  badinage  were  missing ;  the  men  were  morose  and 
taciturn;  in  one  corner  Kouka  and  Quinn  were  quar- 
reling. When  Cleary  halted  in  the  door,  as  if  with 
some  difficulty  he  had  brought  himself  to  a  stop,  the 
detectives  glanced  up. 

"Well,"  Cleary  exploded,  "that  Flanagan  job  is 
twenty-four  hours  old,  and  you  fly  cops  haven't  turned 
anything  up  yet.     I  want  you  to  turn  up  something. 


364      THE  TURN.  OF.  THE  BALANCE 

See  what  I  mean  ?  I  want  you  to  get  busy,  damn  you, 
and  get  busy  right  away.    See  what  I  mean?" 

"But,  Chief,"  one  of  the  men  began. 

Cleary  looked  at  him  with  an  expression  of  unutter- 
able scorn. 

"G-e-t  r-i-g-h-t!"  he  said,  drawling  out  the  words 
in  the  lowest  register  of  his  harsh  bass  voice.  "Get 
right !  See  what  I  mean  ?  Come  to  cases,  you  fellows ; 
I  want  a  show-down.  You  make  some  arrests  before 
morning  or  some  of  you'll  quit  flyin'  and  go  back  to 
wearin'  the  clothes.    See  what  I  mean  ?" 

He  stood  glowering  a  moment,  then  repeated  all  he 
had  said,  cursed  them  all  again,  and  left  the  room, 
swearing  to  himself. 

Down-stairs,  in  the  front  office,  the  reporters  were 
waiting.  Cleary  stopped  when  he  saw  them,  took  off 
his  cap,  and  wiped  his  forehead  with  a  large  silk  hand- 
kerchief. 

"Do  you  care  to  give  out  anything,  Chief,  about  the 
Flanagan  job?"  asked  one  of  the  reporters  timidly. 

"No,"  said  Cleary  bluntly. 

"Have  you  any  clue  ?" 

Cleary  thought  a  moment. 

"We'll  have  the  men  to-morrow." 

The  reporters  stepped  eagerly  forward. 

"Any  details.  Chief?" 

"I'd  be  likely  to  give  'em  to  you  fellows  to  print, 
wouldn't  I?"  said  Cleary  sarcastically. 

"But—" 

"You  heard  what  I  said,  didn't  you  ?  We'll  have  the 
men  to-morrow.  Roll  that  up  in  your  cigarette  and 
smoke  it.    See  what  I  mean  ?" 


THE  TURN  OF'  THE  BALANCE      365 

"Do  you  care  to  comment  on  what  the  Post  said  this 
evening  ?"  asked  a  representative  of  that  paper. 

"What  the  hell  do  I  care  what  your  dirty,  black- 
mailing sheet  says  ?    What  the  hell  do  I  care  ?" 

Cleary  left  then,  and  a  moment  later  they  heard  his 
heavy  voice  through  the  open  window,  swearing  at  the 
horse  as  he  drove  away  in  his  light  official  wagon. 

In  truth,  the  police  were  wholly  at  sea.  All  day  the 
newspapers  had  been  issuing  extras  giving  new  details, 
or  repeating  old  details  of  the  crime.  The  hatred  that 
had  been  loosened  in  the  cottage  of  the  Flanagan  sis- 
ters had,  as  it  were,  poured  in  black  streams  into  the 
whole  people,  and  the  newspapers  had  gathered  up 
this  stream,  confined  it,  and  then,  with  demands  for 
vengeance,  poured  it  out  again  on  the  head  of  the  su- 
perintendent of  police,  and  he,  in  turn,  maddened  and 
tortured  by  criticism,  had  poured  out  this  hatred  on 
the  men  who  were  beneath  him ;  and  now,  at  nightfall, 
they  were  going  out  into  the  dark  city,  maddened  and 
tormented  themselves,  ready  to  pour  it  on  to  any  one 
they  might  encounter.  And  it  was  this  same  hatred 
that  had  sickened  the  breasts  of  Kouka  and  Quinn  so 
that,  after  a  friendship  of  years,  they  had  quarreled, 
and  were  quarreling  even  now  up-stairs  in  the  detec- 
tives* office. 

When  he  heard  of  the  crime,  Kouka  realized  that  if 
he  could  discover  the  murderers  of  Margaret  Flanagan 
he  might  come  into  a  notoriety  that  would  be  the  mak- 
ing of  him.  And  he  had  wondered  how  he  might 
achieve  this.  He  had  visited  Lulu  Corners,  and  all 
day  his  mind  had  been  at  work,  incessantly  revolving 
the  subject;  he  had  recalled  all  the  criminals  he  knew, 


366   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

trying  to  imagine  which  of  them  might  have  done  the 
deed,  trying  to  decide  on  which  of  them  he  might 
fasten  the  crime.  For  his  mind  worked  Hke  the  minds 
of  most  poHcemen — the  problem  was  not  necessarily 
to  discover  who  had  committed  the  crime,  but  who 
might  have  committed  it,  and  this  night,  with  the  criti- 
cism of  the  newspapers,  and  with  the  abuse  of  the  su- 
perintendent, he  felt  himself  more  and  more  driven  to 
the  necessity  of  doing  something  in  order  to  show  that 
the  police  were  active.  And  when  he  heard  from 
Quinn  that  he  had  arrested  Archie  Koerner  on  Friday, 
and  that  Bostwick  had  ordered  him  out  of  the  city,  he 
instantly  suspected  that  it  was  Archie  who  had  mur- 
dered Margaret  Flanagan.  Quinn  had  laughed  at  the 
notion,  but  this  only  served  to  convince  Kouka  and 
make  him  stubborn.  The  problem  then  was  to  find 
Archie.  When  Inspector  McFee  made  his  details  for 
that  night,  all  with  special  reference  to  the  Flanagan 
murder,  Kouka  asked  for  a  special  detail,  intimating 
that  he  had  some  clue  which  he  wished  to  follow  alone, 
and  McFee,  who  was  at  his  wits'  end,  was  willing 
enough  to  let  Kouka  follow  his  own  leading. 

The  night  detail  tramped  heavily  down  the  dark 
halls  and  out  into  Market  Place ;  the  detectives  left  the 
building  and  separated,  stealing  off  in  different  direc- 
tions. An  hour  later,  patrol  wagons  began  to  roll  up 
to  the  station ;  the  tenderloin  was  in  a  turmoil ;  saloons, 
brothels  and  dives  were  raided,  the  night  was  not  half 
gone  before  the  prison  was  crowded  with  miserable 
men  and  women,  charged  with  all  sorts  of  crimes,  and, 
when  no  other  charge  could  be  imagined,  with  sus- 
picion. 

Meanwhile,     Archie     and     Curly     were    trudging 


THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE      367 

through  dark  side-streets  and  friendly  alleys  on  their 
way  to  Archie's  home;  for  Archie  had  determined  to 
see  his  father  and  his  mother  once  more  before  he  left 
the  city.  Archie  was  armed  with  a  revolver  he  had 
procured  from  Gray. 


IV 


Kouka  visited  the  tenderloin  and  learned  that  Archie 
had  not  left  town.  He  learned,  too,  that  he  had  a  com- 
panion, and  though  he  could  follow  the  trail  no  far- 
ther, he  had  decided  to  watch  Archie's  home  in  the 
chance  that  the  boy  might  visit  it  some  time  during 
the  night.  And  now,  for  two  hours,  in  the  patience 
that  was  part  of  his  stupidity,  he  had  lurked  in  the 
black  doorway  of  the  grocery.  Bolt  Street  was  dark 
and  still.  Overhead,  low  clouds  were  flying;  and  the 
old  stool-pigeon,  coming  later  and  later  each  night,  as 
if  bad  habits  were  growing  on  it,  had  not  yet  appeared. 
Now  and  then,  hearing  footsteps,  Kouka  would  shrink 
into  the  darkest  corner  of  the  doorway;  the  steps 
would  sound  louder  and  louder  on  the  wooden  side- 
walk, some  one  would  pass,  and  the  steps  would  gradu- 
ally fade  from  his  hearing.  All  this  had  a  curious 
effect  on  Kouka's  mind.  In  some  doubt  at  first,  the 
waiting,  the  watching  with  one  object  in  view,  more 
and  more  convinced  him  that  he  was  right,  and  in  time 
the  idea  that  Archie  was  the  murderer  he  sought  be- 
came definitely  fixed.  The  little  house  across  the  street 
gradually,  through  the  slowly  moving  hours,  took  on 
an  aspect  that  confirmed  Kouka's  theory;  it  seemed 
to  be  waiting  for  Archie's  coming  as  expectantly  as  the 
detective.  During  the  first  hour  of  his  vigil,  a  shaft 
of  yellow  light  had  streamed  out  of  the  kitchen  win- 
dow into  the  side  yard,  and  Kouka  watched  this  light 

368 


THE   TURN   OF  THE   BALANCE      369 

intently.  Finally,  at  nine  o'clock,  It  was  suddenly 
drawn  in,  as  it  were,  and  the  house  became  dark. 
After  this,  the  house  seemed  to  enshroud  itself  with 
some  mysterious  tragic  apprehension ;  and  Kouka  wait- 
ed, stolidly,  patiently,  possessed  by  his  theory. 

And  then,  it  must  have  been  after  ten  o'clock,  Kouka, 
who  had  heard  no  footsteps  and  no  sound  whatever, 
suddenly,  across  the  street,  saw  two  figures.  They 
stopped,  opened  the  low  gate,  stepped  on  to  the  stoop 
and  knocked.  Their  summons  was  answered  almost 
immediately;  the  door  opened,  and,  in  the  light  that 
suddenly  filled  the  door-frame,  Kouka  recognized 
Archie  Koerner ;  a  woman,  his  mother,  doubtless,  stood 
just  inside ;  he  heard  her  give  a  little  cry,  then  Archie 
put  out  his  arms  and  bent  toward  her ;  then  he  went  in, 
his  companion  following,  and  the  door  was  closed.  In 
another  moment  the  shaft  of  light  shot  out  into  the 
side  yard  again. 

Kouka  was  exultant,  happy;  he  experienced  an  in- 
tense satisfaction;  already  he  realized  something  of 
the  distinction  that  would  be  his  the  next  morning, 
when  the  little  world  he  knew  would  hail  him  as  the 
man  who,  all  alone,  had  brought  the  murderers  of 
that  poor  old  Flanagan  woman  to  the  vengeance  of 
the  people's  law. 

And  yet,  he  must  be  cautious ;  he  knew  what  yeggs 
were ;  he  knew  how  readily  they  would  shoot  and  how 
well,  and  he  did  not  care  to  risk  his  own  body,  and  the 
chance  of  missing  his  prey  besides,  by  engaging  two 
bad  men  alone.  Bad  men  they  were,  to  Kouka,  and 
nothing  else;  they  had  come  suddenly  to  impersonate 
to  him  all  the  evil  in  the  world,  just  as,  though  un- 
known, they  or  some  two  men  impersonated  all  evil 


370   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

to  all  the  people  of  the  city  and  the  county,  where- 
as Kouka  felt  himself  to  be  a  good  man  whose  mis- 
sion it  was  to  crush  this  badness  out  of  the  world. 
He  must  preserve  himself,  as  must  all  good  men,  and 
he  ran  down  the  street,  opened  a  patrolmen's  box, 
called  up  the  precinct  station,  and  gave  the  alarm. 
Then  he  hurried  back;  the  shaft  of  light  was  still 
streaming  out  into  the  side  yard,  its  rays,  like  some 
luminous  vapor,  flowing  palpably  from  the  small  win- 
dow and  slanting  downward  to  be  absorbed  in  the 
dark  earth. 

He  heard  the  roll  of  wheels,  the  urge  of  straining 
horses;  the  patrol  wagon  stopped  at  the  corner;  he 
heard  the  harness  rattle  and  one  of  the  horses  blow 
softly  through  its  delicate  fluttering  nostrils ;  a  moment 
later,  the  squad  of  policemen  came  out  of  the  gloom; 
three  of  the  men  were  in  civilian  attire,  the  other  six 
were  in  uniform. 

Kouka  received  his  little  command  with  his  big, 
heavy  hand  upraised  for  silence.  It  was  a  fine  moment 
for  him ;  he  felt  the  glow  of  authority ;  he  felt  like  an 
inspector;  perhaps  this  night's  work  would  make  an 
inspector  of  him;  he  had  never  had  such  an  opportu- 
nity before.  He  must  evolve  a  plan,  and  he  paused, 
scowled,  as  he  felt  a  commander  should  who,  con- 
fronted by  a  crisis,  was  thinking.  Presently  he  laid 
his  plan  before  them ;  it  was  profound,  strategical.  The 
ofiicers  in  uniform  were  to  surround  the  house,  but  in 
a  certain  way ;  he  explained  this  way.  Three  of  them 
were  to  go  to  the  right  and  cover  the  ground  from  the 
corner  of  the  house  to  the  shaft  of  light  that  streamed 
from  the  window,  the  others  were  to  extend  themselves 


THE  TURN   OF  THE   BALANCE      371 

around  the  other  way,  coming  as  far  as  the  lighted 
window ;  then  no  one  would  be  exposed. 

"You'll  go  with  me,"  said  Kouka  to  the  plain-clothes 
men.  He  said  it  darkly,  with  a  sinister  eye,  implying 
that  their  work  was  to  be  heavy  and  dangerous. 

"Don't  shoot  until  I  give  the  command." 

They  went  across  the  street,  bending  low,  almost 
crouching,  stealing  as  softly  as  they  could  in  their 
great  heavy  boots,  gripping  their  revolvers  nervously, 
filled  with  fear.  Inside  the  gate,  they  surrounded  the 
house. 

Kouka  led  the  way,  motioning  the  others  behind  him 
with  his  hand.  He  stepped  on  to  the  low  stoop,  but 
stood  at  one  side  lest  Archie  shoot  through  the  door. 
He  stood  as  a  reconnoitering  burglar  stands  at  one  side 
of  a  window,  out  of  range ;  cautiously  he  put  forth  his 
hand,  knocked,  and  hastily  jerked  his  hand  away  .  .  . 
He  knocked  twice,  three  times  .  .  .  After  a  while 
the  door  opened  slowly,  and  Kouka  saw  Mrs.  Koerner 
standing  within,  holding  a  lamp.  Kouka  instantly 
pushed  his  knee  inside  the  door,  and  shouldered  his 
way  into  the  room.  The  three  officers  followed,  dis- 
playing their  revolvers. 

"It's  all  off,"  said  Kouka.  "The  house  is  surrounded. 
Where  is  he?" 

Mrs.  Koerner  did  not  speak;  she  could  not.  Her 
face  was  white,  the  lamp  shook  in  her  hand;  its  yel- 
low flame  licked  the  rattling  chimney,  the  reek  of  the 
oil  filled  the  room.  Finally  she  got  to  the  table  and 
with  relief  set  the  lamp  down  among  the  trinkets 
Archie  had  brought  from  the  Philippines. 

"Aw  come,  old  woman !"  said  Kouka,  seizing  her  by 


372   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

the  arm  fiercely.  "Come,  don't  give  us  any  of  the  bull 
con.    Where  is  he  ?" 

Kouka  held  to  her  arm;  he  shook  her  and  swore. 
Mrs.  Koerner  swallowed,  managed  to  say  something, 
but  in  German.  And  then  instantly  the  four  officers, 
as  if  seized  by  some  savage,  irresistible  impulse,  began 
to  rummage  and  ransack  the  house.  They  tore  about 
the  little  parlor,  entered  the  little  bedroom  that  had 
been  Gusta's;  they  looked  everywhere,  in  the  most 
unlikely  places,  turning  up  mats,  chairs,  pulling  off  the 
bed-clothes.  Then  they  burst  into  the  room  behind. 
Suddenly  they  halted  and  huddled  in  a  group. 

There,  in  the  center  of  the  room,  stood  old  man 
Koerner,  clad  in  his  red  flannel  underclothes,  in  which 
he  must  have  slept.  He  had  an  air  of  having  just  got 
out  of  bed ;  his  white  hair  was  tumbled,  and  he  leaned 
on  one  crutch,  as  if  one  crutch  were  all  that  was  neces- 
sary in  dishabille.  Below  the  stump  of  his  amputated 
leg  the  red  flannel  leg  of  his  drawers  was  tied  into  a 
knot.  He  presented  a  grotesque  appearance,  like  some 
aged  fiend.  Under  the  white  bush  of  his  eyebrows, 
under  his  touseled  white  hair,  his  eyes  gleamed  fiercely. 

"Vat  de  hell  ails  you  fellers?" 

"We  want  Archie,"  said  Kouka,  "and,  by  God,  we're 
going  to  have  him,  dead  or  alive."  He  used  the  words 
of  the  advertised  reward.    "Where  is  he  ?" 

Kouka  and  the  other  officers  glanced  apprehensively 
about  the  room,  as  if  Archie  and  Curly  might  start  out 
of  some  corner,  or  out  of  the  floor,  but  in  the  end  their 
glances  came  always  back  to  Koerner,  standing  there 
in  his  red  flannels,  on  one  crutch  and  one  leg,  the  red 
knot  of  the  leg  of  his  drawers  dangling  between. 


THE  TURN   OF  THE   BALANCE      373 

"You  vant  Archie,  huh  ?"  asked  Koerner.  "Dot's  it, 
aind't  it — Archie — my  poy  Archie?" 

"Yes,  Archie,  and  we  want  him  quick." 

"Vat  you  want  mit  him,  huh  ?" 

"It's  none  of  your  business  what  we  want  with  him,'^ 
Kouka  replied  with  an  oath.  "Where  is  he?  Hurry 
up!" 

"You  bin  a  detective,  huh  ?    Dot's  it,  a  detective  ?'* 

"Yes." 

"You  got  some  bapers  for  him?" 

"That's  my  business,"  said  Kouka,  advancing  men- 
acingly toward  Koerner.  "You  tell  where  he  is  or  I'll 
run  the  whole  family  in.  Here,"  he  said  suddenly,  a 
thought  having  occurred  to  him,  "put  'em  under  ar- 
rest, both  of  'em !" 

The  old  man  shuffled  backward,  leaned  against  the 
table  for  support  and  raised  his  crutch  for  protection. 

"You  better  look  oudt,  Mis'er  Detective,"  said 
Koerner.    "You'd  better  look  oudt.    Py  Gott— " 

Kouka  stopped,  considered,  then  changed  his  rnind. 

"Look  here,  Mr.  Koerner,"  he  said.  "It's  no  use, 
[We  know  Archie's  here  and  we  want  him." 

"He's  not  here,"  suddenly  spoke  Mrs.  Koerner  be- 
side him.    "He's  not  here !" 

"The  hell  he  ain't !"  said  Kouka.  "I  saw  him  come 
in — ten  minutes  ago.  Search  the  house,  men."  And 
the  rummaging  began  again. 

The  men  were  about  to  enter  the  little  room  where 
Koerner  slept:  it  was  dark  in  there  and  one  of  them 
took  the  lamp, 

"Look  oudt !"  Koerner  said  suddenly.  "Look  oudt ! 
You  go  in  dere  if  you  vant  to,  but,  py  Gott,  don't 
blame  me  if — " 


374   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

The  men  suddenly  halted  and  stepped  back. 

"Go  on  hi!"  commanded  Kouka.  "What  do  you 
want  to  stand  there  for  ?    Are  you  afraid  ?" 

Then  they  went,  ransacked  that  room,  threw  every- 
thing into  disorder  and  came  out. 

"No  one  there,"  they  reported  in  relief. 

They  searched  the  whole  house  over  again,  and  old 
man  Koerner  stood  by  on  one  leg  and  his  crutch,  with 
a  strange,  amused  smile  on  his  yellow  face.  At  last, 
Kouka,  lifting  his  black  visage,  looked  at  the  ceiling, 
sought  some  way  as  if  to  an  upper  story,  found  none, 
and  then  began  to  swear  again,  cursing  the  old  man 
and  his  wife.    Finally  he  said  to  the  officers : 

"He's  been  kidding  us." 

Then  he  called  his  men,  dashed  out  of  the  house, 
and  with  a  dark  lantern  began  seeking  signs  in  the 
back  yard.  Near  the  rear  fence  he  discovered  foot- 
prints in  the  soft  earth;  they  climbed  over  and  found 
other  footprints  in  the  mud  of  the  alley. 

"Here  they  went !"  cried  Kouka. 


Archie  had  stood  for  a  moment  In  his  mother's  em- 
brace ;  he  had  felt  her  cheek  against  his ;  he  had  heard 
her  voice  again.  He  was  forgetful  of  everything — of 
Curly's  presence,  of  all  he  had  ever  been  made  to  suf- 
fer by  himself  and  by  others.  He  knew  that  his  moth- 
er's eyes  were  closed  and  that  tears  were  squeezing 
through  the  lids ;  he  felt  his  own  tears  coming,  but  it 
did  not  matter — in  that  moment  he  could  cry  without 
being  made  ashamed.  It  was  a  supreme  moment  for 
him,  a  moment  when  all  he  had  been,  all  he  had  done, 
all  he  had  not  done,  made  no  difference;  no  questions 
now,  no  reproaches,  no  accusations,  not  even  forgive- 
ness, for  there  was  no  need  of  forgiveness;  a  moment 
merely  of  love,  an  incredible  moment,  working  a  mira- 
cle in  which  men  would  not  believe,  having  lost  belief 
in  Love.  It  was  a  moment  that  suffused  his  whole  be- 
ing with  a  new,  surging  life,  out  of  which — 

But  it  was  only  a  moment.  Curly  had  turned  away, 
effacing  himself.  Presently  he  started,  and  cast  about 
him  that  habitual  backward  glance;  he  had  heard  a 
step.  It  was  Koerner.  The  old  man  in  his  shirt- 
sleeves, swinging  heavily  between  his  crutches,  paused 
in  the  doorway,  and  then  seeing  his  boy,  his  face  soft- 
ened, and,  balanced  on  his  crutches,  he  held  out  his 
arms  and  Archie  strode  toward  him. 

Curly  waited  another  moment  like  the  first,  taking 
the  chances,  almost  cynically  wondering  how  far  he 

375 


376   THE  TURN  OE  THE  BALANCE 

could  brave  this  fate.  It  was  still  in  the  little  room. 
The  words  were  few.  The  moment  brought  memories 
to  him  as  well, — ^but  he  could  endure  it  no  longer ;  the 
risk  was  enormous  already;  they  were  losing  time. 
For,  just  as  they  had  entered  the  house,  in  that  habitual 
glance  over  the  shoulder.  Curly  had  seen  the  figure  in 
the  dark  doorway  across  the  street — ^and  he  knew. 

"Come  on,  Archie,"  he  said. 

Archie  turned  in  surprise. 

'Tt's  all  off,"  Curly  said.    "We're  dogged." 

"Why?" 

"The  bulls—" 

"Where?" 

"Across  the  street — an  elbow." 

"Him?" 

"Yes." 

"The  hell!" 

Curly  glanced  toward  the  back  room.  But  Archie 
suddenly  grew  stubborn. 

"No,"  he  said.    "Let's  stick  and  slug." 

"Don't  be  a  chump,"  said  Curly. 

"We're  heeled." 

"Well,  they'd  settle  you  in  a  minute." 

"They  can't.    We  can  bust  the  bulls." 

"All  right,"  said  Curly.  "Be  the  wise  guy  if  you 
want  to.  I'll  take  it  on  the  lam  for  mine;  they  ain't 
going  to  bury  me.    Can  I  get  out  that  way  ?" 

He  brushed  past  them  in  the  doorway,  and  called 
from  the  kitchen : 

"Besides,  you've  got  orders." 

Then  Archie  remembered ;  he  looked  at  his  mother, 
at  his  father,  glanced  about  the  little  room,  barren  in 
the  poverty  that  had  entered  the  home,  hesitated,  then 


THE  TURN   of;  THE   BALANCE      377 

turned  and  left  tliem  standing  there.  As  he  passed 
through  the  kitchen  he  heard  little  Katie  and  little 
Jake  breathing  in  their  sleep,  and  the  sound  tore  his 
heart. 

He  was  over  the  fence  and  in  the  alley  just  behind 
Curly.  They  ran  for  a  block,  darted  across  a  lighted 
street,  then  into  the  black  alley  again.  For  several 
blocks  they  dashed  along,  getting  on  as  fast  as  they 
could.  Then  at  length  Archie,  soft  from  his  imprison- 
ment, stopped  in  the  utter  abandon  of  physical  exhaus- 
tion and  stood  leaning  against  a  barn. 

"God !"  he  said,  "I  hain't  going  another  step !  Fm 
all  in  r 

Curly  had  been  leading  the  way  In  the  tireless  en- 
ergy of  the  health  his  out-of-door  life  gave  him,  but 
when  Archie  stopped,  he  paused  and  stood  attent,  in- 
clining his  head  and  listening. 

The  night,  almost  half  gone,  was  still;  sounds  that 
in  the  daytime  and  in  the  earlier  evening  had  been  lost 
in  the  roar  of  the  city  became  distinct,  trolley-cars 
sweeping  along  some  distant  street,  the  long  and  lone- 
some whistles  of  railroad  engines,  now  and  then  the 
ringing  of  a  bell;  close  by,  the  nocturnal  movements 
of  animals  in  the  barns  that  staggered  grotesquely 
along  the  alley. 

"It's  all  right,"  said  Curly;  "we've  made  a  get- 
away." 

He  relaxed  and  slouched  over  to  where  Archie  stood. 

"Where  are  we,  do  you  know  ?"  he  asked. 

Archie  thought.  "That  must  be  Fifteenth  Street 
down  there.  Yes,  there's  the  gas  house."  He  pointed 
to  a  dark  mass  looming  in  the  night.  "And  the  canal 
— and  yes,  Maynard's  lumber-yard's  right  beyond." 


378   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

'  "How  far  from  the  spill  ?" 

"About  three  blocks." 
•  "Come  on,  we  must  get  out  on  the  main  stem." 

They  went  on,  but  in  the  security  they  felt  at  not  be- 
ing followed,  they  ran  no  more,  but  paced  rapidly 
along,  side  by  side.  They  had  not  had  the  time  nor  the 
breath  for  talk,  but  now  suddenly,  Archie,  in  a  tone 
that  paid  tribute  to  Curly's  powers,  expressed  the  sub- 
liminal surprise  he  had  had. 

"How  did  you  know  the  bulls  was  there  ?" 

"I  piked  off  the  elbow  just  as  we  went  in." 

"I  didn't  see  him,"  said  Archie.    "Where  was  he?" 

"Right  across  the  street,  planted  in  a  doorway." 
.  "How  do  you  suppose  he'd  spotted  us  ?" 

"Oh,  he  was  layin'  for  you,  that's  all.  He  had  it  all 
framed  up.  He  thought  he'd  job  you  and  swell  him- 
self." 

"What  do  you  think  of  that  now !" 

They  reached  the  yard  where  the  black  shadows  cast 
by  the  tall  leaning  piles  of  lumber  welcomed  them  like 
friends,  and  through  this  they  passed,  coming  out  at 
length  on  the  railroad.  They  reconnoitered.  The  sky 
of  the  October  night  was  overcast  by  thin  clouds 
which,  gray  at  first,  turned  bright  silver  as  they  flew 
beneath  the  risen  moon. 

"The  dog's  out,"  said  Curly,  who  had  almost  as 
many  names  for  the  moon  as  a  poet. 

Before  them  the  rails  gleamed  and  glinted ;  over  the 
yards  myriads  of  switch-lights  glowed  red  and  green, 
sinister  and  confusing.  Not  far  away  a  switch-engine 
stood,  leisurely  working  the  pump  of  its  air-brake, 
emitting  steamy  sighs,  as  if  it  were  snatching  a  mo- 
ment's rest  from  its  labors.    On  the  damp  and  heavy 


THE  TURN   OF  THE   BALANCE      379 

air  the  voices  of  the  engineer  and  fireman  were  borne 
to  them.  At  times  other  switch-engines  slid  up  and 
down  the  tracks.  Curly  and  Archie  sat  down  in  the 
shadow  of  the  lumber  and  waited.  After  a  while, 
down  the  rails  a  white  light  swung  in  an  arc,  the  rest- 
ing switch-engine  moved  and  began  to  make  up  a 
freight-train. 

"Now's  our  chance,"  said  Curly. 

The  switch-engine  went  to  and  fro  and  up  and  down, 
whistling  now  and  then,  ringing  its  bell  constantly, 
drawing  cars  back  and  forth  interminably,  pulling 
strings  of  them  here  and  there,  adding  to  and  taking 
from  its  train,  stopping  finally  for  a  few  minutes  while 
a  heavy  passenger-train  swept  by,  its  sleeping-cars  all 
dark,  rolling  heavily,  mysteriously,  their  solid  wheels 
clicking  delicately  over  the  joints  of  the  rails. 

"I  wish  we  were  on  that  rattler,"  said  Archie,  witH 
the  longing  a  departing  train  inspires,  and  more  than 
the  normal  longing.    Curly  laughed. 

'*The  John  O'Brien's  good  enough  for  us,"  he  said. 

The  passenger-train,  shrinking  in  size  by  swift  per- 
ceptible degrees  as  it  lost  itself  in  the  darkness,  soon 
was  gone.  The  white  lantern  swung  again,  and  the 
switch-engine  resumed  its  monotonous  labors,  confined 
to  the  tedious  limits  of  that  yard,  never  allowed  to  go 
out  into  the  larger  world.  Gradually  it  worked  the 
train  it  was  patiently  piecing  together  over  to  the  side 
of  the  yard  where  Archie  and  Curly  waited.  Then,  at 
last,  watching  their  chance,  they  slipped  out,  found  an 
open  car,  sprang  into  it,  slunk  out  of  possible  sight  of 
conductor  or  switchman,  and  were  happy. 

The  car  was  bumped  and  buffeted  up  and  down  the 
yard  for  an  hour,  but  Archie  and  Curly  within  were 


38o   THE  TURN  OE  THE  BALANCE 

laughing  at  having  thus  eluded  the  officers.  They  sat 
against  the  wall  of  the  car,  their  knees  to  their  chins, 
talking  under  cover  of  the  noise  the  cars  made.  After 
a  while  the  engine  whistled  and  the  train  moved. 

When  they  awoke,  the  car  was  standing  still  and  a 
gray  light  came  through  the  cracks  of  the  door. 

"I  wonder  where  we  are,"  said  Archie,  rubbing  his 
eyes. 

Curly  got  up,  stretched,  crept  to  the  middle  of  the 
car  and  looked  out.    Presently  Archie  heard  him  say : 

"By  God  r 

He  joined  him.  And  there  were  the  lumber  piles. 
It  was  morning,  the  city  was  awake,  the  grinding  of 
its  weary  mills  had  begun.  They  were  just  where  they 
had  been  the  night  before. 

"Marooned  !'*  said  Curly,  and  he  laughed. 

They  decided,  or  Curly  decided,  that  they  must  wait. 
Some  of  those  restless  switch-engines  would  make  up 
another  train  before  long,  and  in  it  they  might  leave 
the  town,  in  which  there  was  now  no  place  of  safety 
for  them.  The  morning  was  cold;  the  chill  of  the 
damp  atmosphere  stiffened  them.  Just  outside,  in  the 
lumber-yard,  several  men  were  working,  and  the  fugi- 
tives must  not  be  seen  by  them,  for  they  would  be 
as  hostile  as  the  whole  world  had  suddenly  become. 
They  waited,  but  the  men  did  not  leave.  Their  task 
seemed  to  be  as  endless  as  that  of  the  switch-engine. 
For  a  long  while  the  railroad  yards  were  strangely 
still.  Now  and  then  Curly  crept  to  the  door  and 
peeped  out;  the  lumber-shovers  were  not  twenty  feet 
away.  The  door  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  car  was 
locked.  Finally,  they  grew  restless;  they  decided  to 
go  out  anyhow. 


THE  TURN  OF.  THE  BALANCE      381 

"Hell !''  said  Archie.  "There's  nothing  to  it.  Let's 
mope." 

Something  of  Archie's  recklessness  and  disregard  of 
consequences  affected  Curly. 

"Well,  all  right,"  he  said ;  "come  on." 

They  went  to  the  door  of  the  car.  And  there,  look- 
ing full  in  their  faces,  was  a  switchman  with  a  red, 
rough  face  and  a  stubble  of  reddish  beard.  The 
switchman  drew  back  with  a  curse  to  express  his  as- 
tonishment, his  surprise,  the  sudden  fright  that  con- 
fused and  angered  him. 

"Come  out  o'  that,  you  hobos,"  he  called,  stepping 
back.  The  men  in  the  lumber-yard  heard  his  sudden 
cry,  stopped  and  looked  up.  The  switchman  cursed 
and  called  again. 

Curly  and  Archie  shrank  into  tKe  darkness  of  the 
car.    Archie  had  drawn  his  revolver. 

"Put  it  up,"  said  Curly,  with  the  anger  of  his  disap- 
pointment. 

They  waited  and  listened ;  the  switchman's  voice  was 
heard  no  more ;  he  must  have  gone  away. 

"He'll  blow  us  to  the  railroad  coppers.  Now's  our 
only  chance !" 

They  went  to  the  door,  leaped  out,  bent  their  heads 
and  ran.  And  instantly,  with  the  howl  of  the  hunter, 
the  men  in  the  lumber-yard,  not  knowing  Archie  or 
Curly  or  what  they  had  done,  or  whether  they  had  done 
anything,  left  their  work  and  ran  after  them,  raising 
the  old  hue  and  cry  of  English  justice.  Even  the  en- 
gines in  the  yards  joined  by  sounding  sharp,  angry 
blasts  on  their  whistles,  and  behind  the  little  group 
that  was  rapidly  becoming  a  mob,  raced  the  switchman 
with  two  of  the  railroad's  detectives. 


382   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

As  swiftly  as  they  could,  in  their  stiffness  and  their 
hunger  and  their  cold,  Archie  and  Curly  ran  down  the 
long  yards,  over  cinders  and  uneven  ties.  They  ran 
for  a  quarter  of  a  mile  and  the  yard  narrowed,  the 
tracks  began  to  converge,  to  unite,  marking  the  begin- 
ning of  the  main  line.  On  either  side  rose  the  clayey 
banks,  ahead  there  was  a  narrow  cut  with  an  ele- 
vated crossing;  near  this  was  a  switchman's  shanty. 
Just  then  something  sang  over  their  heads,  a  musical 
humming  sound.  They  knew  the  sound  a  bullet  makes 
and  dodged  into  the  switchman's  shanty,  slammed  the 
door  behind  them,  locked  it  and,  a  moment  later,  were 
at  bay  with  the  mob.  The  crowd  surged  up  to  the  very 
door,  flung  itself  against  the  shanty.  Then  Curly 
called  : 

"Stand  back!" 

The  cry  of  the  crowd  was  given  in  a  lower,  angrier 
tone;  again  it  hurled  itself  against  the  door,  and  the 
little  shanty,  painted  in  the  yellow  and  white  of  the 
railroad,  rocked.  Another  shot  pierced  the  shanty, 
splintering  the  boards  above  their  heads.  Then  Archie 
stepped  to  the  little  window,  thrust  out  his  revolver. 
There  was  an  angry  cry  outside,  then  stillness ;  the 
crowd  gave  way,  withdrew,  and  kept  its  distance. 

"Don't  push  the  rod!"  Curly  commanded.  "What 
in  hell  ails  you  ?" 

"Oh,  sin  not  leery !    I'll  plug  'em  for  keeps !" 

Curly  looked  into  Archie's  white  face. 

"Are  the  bulls  tailing  on  ?"  he  asked. 

"They're  coming  strong !    Listen !" 

"We'd  better  cave !"  urged  Curly. 

"Like  hell!"  Archie  replied.  "They  don't  drop  me 
without  a  muss  now.    If  you  want  to  flunk — " 


THE   TURN   OF   THE   BALANCE       383 

Curly's  face  flamed  and  his  little  eyes  pierced  Archie. 

"Look  out,  young  fellow !"  he  said,  taking  a  sudden 
step  toward  him.  Archie  looked  at  him  with  a  sneer. 
Then  Curly  stopped. 

"Look  here,  Dutch,"  he  said.  "Don't  be  a  fool. 
We're—" 

"I've  told  you  what  I'll  do,"  said  Archie,  all  the 
dogged  stubbornness  of  his  nafure  aroused.  Then 
Curly  seemed  to  lose  interest.  Outside  they  could 
hear  the  crowd  again. 

Half  an  hour  passed.  They  heard  the  clang  of  a 
gong  in  the  near-by  street. 

"The  pie  wagon,"  said  Curly. 

Archie  was  quiet.  There  was  a  cheer,  then  a  voice, 
deep,  commanding  and  official : 

"Surrender  in  the  name  of  the  law !" 
.  Curly  looked  a  question  at  Archie. 

"What  ails  you  to-day?"  asked  Archie.  "Lost  your 
nerve  ?" 

"I  haven't  lost  my  nut." 

"We'll  give  you  three  minutes,"  said  the  voice,  "then 
if  you  don't  come  out,  holding  up  your  hands,  we'll 
fire." 

For  what  seemed  a  long  time  there  was  utter  quiet, 
then  bullets  tore  through  the  pine  boards  of  the  little 
shanty  and  Archie  sprang  to  the  window  and  fired. 
Curly  was  squatting  on  the  floor.  Archie  fired  again, 
and  again,  and  yet  again. 

"I've  only  got  one  left,"  he  said,  turning  from  the 
window. 

"All  right,  then  we'll  cave." 


384   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

Curly  got  up,  went  to  the  door,  flung  it  open  and 
held  up  his  hands.    The  mob  cheered. 

But  Archie  stayed.  The  officer  called  again,  Curly 
called,  the  crowd  called;  then  the  shooting  began 
again.  Presently  Archie  appeared  in  the  doorway  and 
looked  about  with  a  white,  defiant  face.  And  there, 
before  him,  a  rod  away,  stood  Kouka,  revolver  in  hand. 
He  saw  Archie,  his  brow  wrinkled,  and  he  smiled 
darkly. 

"You  might  as  well — "  he  began. 

Archie  looked  at  him  an  instant,  slowly  raised  his 
revolver  above  his  head,  lowered  it  in  deliberate  aim, 
fired,  and  Kouka  fell  to  his  knees,  toppled  forward 
with  a  groan  and  collapsed  in  a  heap  on  the  ground, 
dead. 

The  crowd  was  stricken  still.  Archie  stood  looking 
at  Kouka,  his  eyes  burning,  his  face  white,  his  smok- 
ing revolver  lowered  in'  his  hand.  A  smile  came  to  his 
pale,  tense  lips.  Then  the  crowd  closed  in  on  him ;  the 
policemen,  angry  and  ferocious,  caught  and  pinioned 
him,  began  to  club  him.  The  crowd  pressed  closer, 
growing  savage,  shaking  fists  at  him,  trying  to  strike 
him.    Suddenly  some  one  began  to  call  for  a  rope. 

Then  the  policemen,  so  eager  a  moment  before  to 
wreak  their  own  vengeance  on  him,  were  now  con- 
cerned for  his  safety.  A  sergeant  gave  a  command; 
they  dragged  Archie  toward  the  patrol  wagon.  The 
crowd  surged  that  way,  and  Archie,  bareheaded,  his 
yellow  hair  disordered,  his  eyes  flashing,  his  white 
brow  stained  with  blood,  stared  about  on  the  police- 
men and  on  the  crowd  with  a  look  of  hatred.  Then  he 
glanced  back  to  where  some  men  were  bending  over 
Kouka,  and  he  smiled  again. 


Archie  looked  about  with  a  white,  defiant  face      Page  J84 


I    UNIVERSITY 

\  OF 


THE   TURN   OF  THE   BALANCE      385 

**Well,  I  croaked  him  all  right,"  he  said. 

A  patrolman  struck  him  with  a  club;  and  he  stag- 
gered as  the  blow  fell  with  a  sharp  crash  on  his  head. 

"Get  on  there !"  said  the  sergeant,  cursing  him.  He 
was  thrown  into  the  patrol  wagon  beside  Curly,  and 
he  sat  there,  white,  with  the  blood  trickling  in  two 
streams  from  his  forehead,  his  eyes  flashing,  and  the 
strange  smile  on  his  lips  whenever  he  looked  back 
where  Kouka  lay.    The  patrol  wagon  dashed  away. 


VI 


Marriott  was  sensible  of  a  hostile  atmosphere  the 
moment  he  entered  the  police  station.  The  desk  ser- 
geant glanced  at  him  with  disapproval,  kept  him  wait- 
ing, finally  consulted  an  inspector,  blew  savagely  into 
a  speaking  tube,  and  said : 

''Here's  a  young  lawyer  to  see  Koemer." 

The  contemptuous  description,  the  tone,  the  attitude, 
all  expressed  the  hatred  the  police  had  for  Archie,  a 
hatred  that  Marriott  realized  would  extend  itself  to 
him  for  taking  sides  with  Archie.  The  turnkey,  a 
thin  German  with  cheek-bones  that  seemed  about  to 
perforate  his  sallow  skin,  a  black  mustache,  and  two 
black,  glossy  curls  plastered  on  his  low  forehead,  like- 
wise scowled  and  showed  reluctance. 

"How  many  damned  lawyers,"  he  said,  taking  a 
corn-cob  pipe  from  his  mouth,  "is  that  feller  going  to 
have,  anyway?" 

"Why,"  asked  Marriott  in  a  sudden  hope  that  ig- 
nored the  man's  insolence,  "have  there  been  others?" 

"Humph!"  said  the  turnkey,  jangling  his  heavy 
keys.    "Only  about  a  dozen." 

"Well,  I'll  see  him  anyway." 

Marriott  had  waited  thus  for  Archie  and  for  other 
men  who  had  done  crimes ;  but  never  for  one  who  had 
killed  a  man.  He  felt  a  new,  unpleasant  sensation,  a 
nervous  apprehension,  just  a  faint  sickness,  and  then 
— Archie  came. 

386 


THE   TURN   OF.  THE   BALANCE      387 

The  boy  stepped  into  the  turnkey's  room  with  a 
certain  air  of  relief ;  he  straightened  himself,  stretched, 
and  within  the  flannel  undershirt  that  showed  his 
white,  muscular  neck  to  its  base,  his  chest  expanded 
as  he  filled  his  lungs  with  the  welcome  air.  He  threw 
away  his  cigarette,  came  forward  and  pressed  Marri- 
ott's hand,  strongly,  with  hearty  gratitude. 

The  turnkey  led  them  to  a  dingy  room,  and  locked 
them  in  a  closet  used  as  a  consulting  cabinet  by  those 
few  prisoners  who  could  secure  lawyers.  The  gloom 
was  almost  as  thick  as  the  dust  in  the  closet.  Marriott 
thought  of  all  the  tragedies  the  black  hole  had  known ; 
and  wondered  if  Archie  had  any  such  thoughts.  He 
could  not  see  Archie's  face  clearly,  but  it  seemed  to  be 
clouded  by  too  many  realities  to  be  conscious  of  the 
romantic  or  the  tragic  side  of  things.  It  was  essential 
to  talk  in  low  tones,  for  they  knew  that  the  turnkey 
was  listening  through  the  thin,  wooden  partition. 
Marriott  waited  for  Archie  to  begin. 

"Well?"  he  said  presently. 

"Got  a  match,  Mr.  Marriott  ?"  Archie  asked. 

Marriott  drew  out  his  silver  match-box,  and  then 
looked  at  Archie's  face  glowing  red  in  the  tiny  flame 
of  the  light  he  made  for  his  cigarette.  The  action 
calmed  and  reassured  Marriott.  Archie's  face  wore 
no  unwonted  or  tragic  expression;  if  his  experience 
had  changed  him,  it  had  not  as  yet  set  its  mark  on 
him.    Marriott  lighted  a  cigarette  himself. 

"I  was  afraid  you  wouldn't  come,"  said  Archie, 
dropping  to  the  floor  the  match  he  economically  shared 
with  Marriott,  and  then  solicitously  pressing  out  its 
little  embers  with  his  foot. 

"I  got  your  message  only  this  morning." 


388   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

"Humph!"  sneered  Archie.  "That's  the  way  of 
them  coppers.  I  asked  'em  to  'phone  you  the  morning 
they  made  the  pinch." 

"Well,  they  didn't." 

"No,  they've  got  it  in  for  me,  Mr.  Marriott ;  they'll 
job  me  if  they  can.  I  was  worried  and  'fraid  I'd  have 
to  take  some  other  lawyer." 

"They  told  me  you  had  seen  others." 

"Oh,  some  of  them  guys  was  here  tryin'  to  tout  out 
a  case ;  you  know  the  kind.  Frisby  and  Pennell,  some 
of  them  dead  ones.  I  s'pose  they  were  lookin'  for  a 
little  notoriety." 

The  unpleasant  sensation  Marriott  felt  at  Archie's 
recognition  of  his  own  notoriety  was  lost  in  the  greater 
disgust  that  he  had  for  the  lawyers  who  were  so 
anxious  to  share  that  notoriety.  He  knew  how  Frisby 
solicited  such  cases,  how  the  poor  and  friendless  pris- 
oners eagerly  grasped  at  the  hopes  he  could  so  shame- 
lessly hold  out  to  them,  how  their  friends  and  relatives 
mortgaged  their  homes,  when  they  had  them,  or  their 
furniture,  or  their  labor  in  the  future,  to  pay  the  fees 
he  extorted.  And  he  knew  Pennell,  the  youth  just  out 
of  law-school,  who  had  the  gift  of  the  gab,  and  was  an 
incorrigible  spouter,  having  had  the  misfortune  while 
in  college  to  win  a  debate  and  to  obtain  a  prize  for 
oratory.  His  boundless  conceit  and  assurance  made 
up  for  his  utter  lack  of  knowledge  of  law,  or  of  human 
nature,  his  utter  lack  of  experience,  or  of  sympathy. 
He  had  no  principles,  either,  but  merely  a  determina- 
tion to  get  on  in  the  world ;  he  was  ever  for  sale,  and 
Marriott  knew  how  his  charlatanism  would  win,  how; 
soon  he  would  be  among  the  successful  of  the  city. 

"I  tell  you,  Archie,"  he  was  saying,  "I  can't  consent 


THE   TURN   OF   THE   BALANCE      389 

to  represent  you  if  either  of  these  fellows  is  in  the 
case." 

"Who?  Them  guys?  Not  much!"  Archie  puffed 
at  his  cigarette.  "Not  for  me.  Tm  up  against  the  real 
thing  this  time."    He  gave  a  little  sardonic  laugh. 

It  was  difficult  to  discuss  the  case  to  any  purpose 
in  that  little  closet  with  its  dirt  and  darkness,  and  the 
repressing  knowledge  that  some  one  was  straining  to 
hear  what  they  would  say.  Marriott  watched  the 
spark  of  Archie's  cigarette  glow  and  fade  and  glow 
and  fade  again. 

"We  can't  talk  here,"  said  Archie.  "You  pull  off 
my  hearing  as  soon  as  possible,  and  get  me  out  of 
here.  When  I  get  over  to  the  pogey  I'll  h^ve  a  chance 
to  turn  around,  and  we  can  talk.  Bring  it  on  as  soon's 
you  can,  Mr.  Marriott.  Won't  you?  God!  It's  hell 
in  that  crum  box,  and  those  drunks  snoring  and  snort- 
ing and  havin'  the  willies  all  night.  Can't  you  get  it 
on  to-morrow  morning  ?" 

"Can  we  be  ready  by  then  ?" 

"Oh,  there's  nothin'  to  it  down  here.    We'll  waive." 

"We'll  see,"  said  Marriott,  with  the  professional 
dislike  of  permitting  clients  to  dictate  how  their  des- 
perate affairs  should  be  managed.  "You  see  I  don't 
know  the  circumstances  of  the  affair  yet.  All  I  know 
is  what  I've  read  in  the  papers." 

"Oh,  well,  to  hell  with  them,"  said  Archie,  "Never 
mind  what  they  say.  They're  tryin'  to  stick  me  for 
that  Flanagan  job.  You  know,  Mr.  Marriott,  I  didn't 
have  nothin'  to  do  with  that,  don't  you  ?" 

Archie  leaned  forward  in  an  appeal  that  was  irre- 
sistible, convincing. 

'Tes,  I  know  that." 


390   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

"All  right,  I  want  you  to  know  that.  I  ain't  that 
kind,  you  know.  But  Kouka — well",  I  got  him,  but  I 
had  to,  Mr.  Marriott;  I  had  to.  You  see  that,  don't 
you  ?    He  agitated  me  to  it ;  he  agitated  me  to  it." 

He  repeated  the  word  thus  strangely  employed  a 
^number  of  times,  as  if  it  gave  him  relief  and  comfort. 

"Yes,  sir,  he  agitated  me  to  it.  I  had  to ;  that's  all. 
It  was  a  case  of  self-defense." 

Marriott  was  silent  for  a  few  moments.  Then  he 
asked : 

"Have  you  talked  to  the  police  ?" 

Archie  laughed. 

"They  give  me  the  third  degree,  but — ^there  was 
nothin'  doin'." 

Marriott  was  relieved  to  find  that  he  did  not  have 
to  face  the  usual  admission  the  police  wring  from  their 
subjects,  but  Archie  went  on : 

"Of  course,  that  don't  make  no  difference.  They 
can  frame  up  a  confession  all  right." 

"They'd  hardly  do  anything  that  desperate,"  said 
Marriott,  though  not  with  the  greatest  assurance. 

"Well,"  said  Archie,  "I  wouldn't  put  it  past  'em." 

Marriott  finished  his  cigarette  in  a  reflective  silence, 
dropped  it  to  the  floor  and  imitated  Archie  in  the  care 
with  which  he  extinguished  it.  Then  he  sighed, 
straightened  up  and  said : 

"Well,  Archie,  let's  get  down  to  business;  tell  me 
the  particulars." 

And  Archie  narrated  the  events  that  led  up  to  the 
tragedy. 

"I  wanted  to  see  the  old  people — and  the  kids — and 
Gus."  He  was  silent  then,  and  Marriott  did  not  break 
the  silence 


THE   TURN   OF   THE   BALANCE      391 

"Say,  Mr.  Marriott/*  the  boy  suddenly  asked, 
"where  is  Gus  ?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"What's  become  of  her  ?    Do  you  know  that  ?" 

"N-no — r  said  Marriott.  He  felt  that  Archie  was 
eying  him  shrewdly. 

"You  know,"  said  Archie  in  the  lowest  tone,  "I'm 
afraid,  I've  got  a  kind  of  hunch — that  she's — gone 
wrong." 

Marriott  feared  his  own  silence,  but  he  could  not 
speak. 

"Hell!"  Archie  exclaimed,  in  a  tone  that  dismissed 
the  question.  "Well,  I  wanted  to  go  home,  and  I 
goes.  Curly  and  me.  Kouka  followed ;  he  plants  him- 
self across  the  street,  gets  the  harness  bulls,  and  they 
goes  gunning.  Curly,  he  sees  him — Curly  can  see  any- 
thing. We  lammed.  The  coppers  misses  us ;  and  we 
gets  on  a  freight-car.  They  cuts  that  car  out,  and  we 
stays  in  it  all  night.  Damn  it!  Did  you  ever  hear  o' 
such  luck  ?    Now  did  you,  Mr.  Marriott  ?" 

Marriott  owned  that  he  had  not. 

"In  the  morning,"  Archie  went  on,  "they  lagged 
us  and  we  ran — ^they  began  to  shoot,  and — •" 

He  stopped. 

"Well,"  he  said  very  quietly.  "I  had  my  rod,  and 
barked  at  Kouka.    I  got  him." 

Marriott  wished  that  he  could  see  Archie's  face.  It 
was  not  so  dim  in  there  as  it  had  been,  or  so  it  seemed 
to  Marriott,  for  his  eyes  had  accommodated  themselves 
to  the  gloom,  but  he  could  not  read  Archie's  expres- 
sion. He  waited  for  him  to  go  on.  He  was  intensely 
interested  now  in  the  human  side  of  the  question ;  the 
legal  side  might  wait.    He  longed  to  put  a  dozen  ques- 


392   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

tions  to  Archie,  but  he  dared  not ;  he  felt  that  he  could 
not  profane  this  soul  that  had  erred  and  gone  astray, 
by  prying  out  its  secrets ;  he  was  conscious  only  of  a 
great  pity.  He  thought  he  might  ask  Archie  if  he  had 
shot,  aimed,  intentionally;  he  wished  to  know  just 
what  had  been  in  the  boy's  heart  at  that  moment ;  then 
he  had  a  great  fear  that  Archie  might  tell  him.  But 
Archie  was  speaking  again. 

"Say,  Mr.  Marriott,"  he  said,  "could  you  go  out 
to  my  home  and  get  me  some  clothes  ?  I  want  to  make 
as  good  a  front  as  I  can  when  I  go  into  court.'* 

"Your  clothes  seem  pretty  good;  they  look  new. 
They  gave  them  to  you,  I  suppose,  at  the  peniten- 
tiary?" 

Archie  laughed. 

"I'd  look  like  a  jay  in  them  stir  clothes,"  he  said. 
"These — well,  these  ain't  mine,"  he  added  simply. 
"But  get  me  a  shirt,  if  you  can,  and  a  collar  and — ^a 
tie— a  blue  one.  And  say,  if  you  can,  get  word  to  the 
folks — tell  'em  not  to  worry.  And  if  you  can  find  Gus, 
tell  her  to  come  down.    You  know." 

Marriott  went  out  into  the  street,  glad  of  the  sun- 
light, the  air,  the  bustle  of  normal  life.  And  yet,  as 
he  analyzed  his  sensations,  he  was  surprised  to  note 
that  the  whole  affair  had  lacked  the  sense  of  tragedy 
he  had  expected;  it  all  seemed  natural  and  common- 
place enough.  Archie  was  the  same  boy  he  had  known 
before.  The  murder  was  but  an  incident  in  Archie's 
life,  that  was  all,  just  as  his  own  sins  and  follies  and 
mistakes  were  incidents  that  usually  appeared  to  be 
necessary  and  unavoidable — incidents  he  could  always 
abundantly  account  for  and  palliate  and  excuse  and 
justify.     Sometimes  it  seemed  that  even  good  grew 


THE  TURN   OF  THE   BALANCE      393 

out  of  them.  Sometimes !  Yes,  always,  he  felt,  else 
were  the  universe  wrong.  And  after  all — where  was 
the  difference  between  sins?  What  made  one  greater 
than  another?  Wherein  was  the  murder  Archie  had 
done  worse  than  the  unkind  word  he,  Gordon  Marriott, 
had  spoken  that  morning  ?  But  Marriott  put  this  phase 
of  the  question  aside,  and  tried  to  trace  Archie's  deed 
back  to  its  first  cause.  As  he  did  this,  he  became  fasci- 
nated with  the  speculation,  and  his  heart  beat  fast  as 
he  thought  that  if  he  could  present  the  case  to  a  jury 
in  all  its  clarity  and  truth— perhaps — perhaps — 


VII 


Archie  did  not  have  his  hearing  the  next  morning. 
The  newspapers  said  "the  State'*  was  not  ready,  which 
meant  that  Allen,  the  prosecutor,  and  the  police  were 
not  ready.  Quinn  and  Allen  had  conferences.  They 
felt  it  to  be  their  duty  to  have  Archie  put  to  death  if 
possible,  and  they  were  undecided  as  to  which  case 
would  the  better  insure  this  result.  Allen  found  legal 
difficulties;  there  was  a  question  whether  or  not  the 
murder  of  Kouka  had  been  murder  in  the  first  degree. 
Hence  he  wished  to  have  Bridget  Flanagan  identify 
Archie. 

Several  days  elapsed,  and  then  one  morning,  Bent- 
ley,  the  sheriff,  brought  Bridget  Flanagan  to  the  Cen- 
tral Police  Station  in  a  carriage.  Allen  and  Cleary  and 
Quinn,  with  several  officers  and  reporters,  were  waiting 
to  witness  her  confrontation  of  Archie. 

The  old  woman  was  dressed  in  black;  she  wore  a 
black  shawl  and  a  black  bonnet,  but  these  had  faded 
independently  of  each  other,  so  that  each  was  now  of 
its  own  dingy  shade.  The  dress  had  a  brown  cast,  the 
shawl  a  tone  of  green,  the  bonnet  was  dusty  and  gray- 
ing, and  the  black  veil  that  was  tightly  bound  about 
her  brow,  like  the  band  of  a  nun,  had  been  empurpled 
in  the  process  of  decay.  She  leaned  heavily  on  Bent- 
ley,  tottering  in  her  weakness,  now  and  then  lifting 
her  arms  with  a  wild,  nervous  gesture.     Bentley's 

394 


THE   TURN   OF   THE   BALANCE       395 

huge,  disproportionate  bulk  moved  uncertainly  beside 
her,  lurching  this  way  and  that,  as  if  he  feared  to  step 
on  her  feet  or  her  ancient  gown,  finding  it  difficult,  at 
arm's  length,  to  support  and  guide  her.  But  at  last  he 
got  her  to  a  chair.  At  the  edge  of  the  purplish  veil 
bound  across  the  hairless  brows,  a  strip  of  adhesive 
plaster  showed.  The  old  woman  wearily  closed  the 
eyes  that  had  gazed  on  the  horrors  of  the  tragedy; 
her  mouth  moved  in  senile  spasms.  Now  and  then 
she  mumbled  little  prayers  that  sounded  like  oaths; 
and  raised  to  her  lips  the  little  ball  into  which  she 
had  wadded  her  handkerchief.  And  she  sat  there,  her 
palsied  head  shaking  disparaging  negatives.  The  po- 
lice, the  detectives,  the  prosecutor,  the  reporters  looked 
on.    They  said  nothing  for  a  long  time. 

Cleary,  trying  to  speak  with  an  exaggerated  tender- 
ness, finally  said : 

**Miss  Flanagan,  we  hate  to  trouble  you,  but  we 
won't  keep  you  long.  We  think  we  have  the  man  who 
killed  your  dear  sister — we'd  like  to  have  you  see 
him—" 

The  old  woman  started,  tried  to  get  up,  sank  back, 
made  a  strange  noise  in  her  throat,  pushed  out  her 
hands  toward  Cleary  as  if  to  repulse  him  and  his  sug- 
gestion, then  clasped  her  hands,  wrung  them,  closed 
her  eyes,  swayed  to  and  fro  in  her  chair  and  moaned, 
ejaculating  the  little  prayers  that  sounded  like  oaths. 
Cleary  waited.  Quinn  brought  a  glass  of  water.  Pres- 
ently the  old  woman  grew  calm  again;  after  a  while 
Cleary  renewed  his  suggestion.  The  old  woman  con- 
tinued to  moan.  Cleary  whispered  to  two  policemen 
and  they  left  the  room.  The  policemen  were  gone 
\vhat  seemed  a  long  time,  but  at  last  they  appeared  in 


396   THE  TURN  OK  THE  BALANCE 

the  doorway,  and  between  them,  looking  expectantly 
about  him,  was  Archie  Koerner.  The  policemen  led 
him  into  the  room,  the  group  made  way,  they  halted 
before  the  old  woman.    Cleary  advanced. 

"Miss  Flanagan,"  he  said  very  gently,  standing  be- 
side her,  and  bending  assiduously,  "Miss  Flanagan, 
will  you  please  take  a  look  now,  and  tell  us — if  you 
ever  saw  this  man  before,  if  he  is  the  man  who — " 

Wearily,  slowly,  the  old  woman  raised  her  blue  eye- 
lids; and  then  she  shuddered,  started,  seemed  to  have 
a  sudden  access  of  strength,  got  to  her  feet  and  cried 
out: 

"OH,  my  poor  sister !  my  poor  sister !  You  kilt  her ! 
You  kilt  her!" 

Then  she  sank  to  Her  knees  and  collapsed  on  the 
floor.  Bentley  ran  across  the  room,  brought  a  glass 
of  water,  and  stood  uncertainly,  awkwardly  about, 
while  the  others  bore  the  old  woman  to  a  couch, 
stretched  her  out,  threw  up  a  window,  began  to  fan 
her  with  newspapers,  with  hats,  anything.  Some  one 
took  the  water  from  the  sheriff,  pressed  the  glass  to 
the  old  woman's  lips ;  it  clicked  against  her  teeth. 

Then  Cleary,  Quinn,  Bentley,  the  policemen,  the  de- 
tectives, the  reporters,  looked  at  one  another  and 
smiled,  Cleary  bent  over  the  old  woman. 

"That's  all,  Miss  Flanagan.  You  needn't  worry  any 
more.  We're  sorry  we  had  to  trouble  you,  but  the  law, 
you  know,  and  our  duty — " 

He  repeated  the  words  "law"  and  "duty'*  several 
times.  Meanwhile  Archie  stood  there,  between  the  two 
policemen.  He  looked  about  him,  at  the  men  in  the 
room,  at  the  old  woman  stretched  on  the  lounge ;  finally 
his  gaze  fastened  on  Cleary,  and  his  lips  slowly  curled 


THE   TURN.  OE  THE   BALANCE      397 

in  a  sneer,  and  his  face  hardened  into  an  expression  of 
utter  scorn. 

"Take  him  down  I"  shouted  Geary  angrily. 

The  reporters  rushed  out.  An  hour  later  the  extras 
were  on  the  streets,  announcing  the  complete  and  posi- 
tive identification  of  Archie  Koerner  by  Bridget  Flana- 
gan. 

"The  hardened  prisoner,"  the  reports  said,  "stood 
and  sneered  while  the  old  woman  confronted  him. 
The  police  have  not  known  so  desperate  a  character  in 
years." 


VIII 

Marriott  had  attended  to  all  of  Archie's  commis' 
sions,  save  one — that  of  telling  Gusta  to  go  to  him. 
He  had  not  done  this  because  he  did  not  know  where  to 
find  her.  But  Gusta  went  herself,  just  as  she  seemed 
to  do  most  things  in  life,  because  she  could  not  help  do- 
ing them,  because  something  impelled,  forced  her  to  do 
them, — some  power  that  made  sport  of  her,  using  a 
dozen  agencies,  forces  hereditary,  economic,  social, 
moral,  all  sorts — driving  her  this  way  and  that.  She 
had  read  of  the  murder,  and  then,  with  horror,  of 
Archie's  arrest.  She  did  not  know  he  was  out  of  pris- 
on until  she  heard  that  he  was  in  prison  again. 
She  began  to  calculate  the  time  that  had  flowed 
by  so  swiftly,  making  such  changes  in  her  life.  Her 
first  impulse  was  to  go  to  him,  but  now  she  feared 
the  police.  She  recalled  her  former  visits,  that  first 
Sunday  at  the  workhouse,  on  which  she  had  thought 
herself  so  sad,  whereas  she  had  not  begun  to  learn 
what  sorrow  was.  She  recalled  the  day  in  the  police 
station  a  year  before,  and  remembered  the  policeman 
who  had  held  her  arm  so  suggestively.  She  read  the 
newspapers  eagerly,  absorbed  every  detail,  her  heart 
sinking  lower  than  it  had  ever  gone  before.  When 
she  read  that  Marriott  was  to  defend  Archie,  she  al- 
lowed herself  to  hope.  The  next  day  she  read  an  ac- 
count of  the  identification  of  Archie  by  the  surviving 

398 


The  turn  of  the  balance     399 

Flanagan  sister,  and  then,  when  hope  was  gone,  she 
could  resist  no  longer  the  impulse  to  go  to  him. 

She  paused  again  at  the  door  of  the  sergeant's  room, 
her  heart  beating  painfully  with  the  fear  that  showed 
itself  in  little  white  spots  on  each  side  of  her  nostrils ; 
then  the  timid  parleying  with  the  officers,  the  delay, 
the  suspicion,  the  opposition,  the  reluctance,  until  an 
officer  in  uniform  took  her  in  charge,  led  her  down  the 
iron  stairway  to  the  basement,  and  had  the  turnkey 
open  the  prison  doors.  Archie  came  to  the  bars,  and 
peered  purblindly  into  the  gloom.  And  Gusta  went 
close  now,  closer  than  she  had  ever  gone  before;  the 
bars  had  no  longer  the  old  meaning  for  her,  they  had 
no  longer  their  old  repulsion,  and  she  looked  at  Archie 
no  more  with  the  old  feeling  of  reproach  and  moral 
superiority.  In  fact,  she  judged  no  more;  sin  had 
healed  her  of  such  faults  as  self-satisfaction  and  moral 
complacency;  it  had  softened  and  instructed  her,  and 
in  its  great  kindness  revealed  to  her  her  own  relation  to 
all  who  sin,  so  that  she  came  now  with  nothing  but 
compassion,  sympathy  and  love.  Tears  were  streaming 
down  her  cheeks. 

*'Oh,  Archie!"  she  said.    "Oh,  Archie!" 

Archie  looked  at  her  and  at  the  officers.  Gusta  was 
oblivious;  she  put  her  face  to  the  greasy  bars,  and 
pressed  her  lips  mutely  between  them.  Archie,  who 
did  not  like  to  cry  before  an  officer  and  before  the 
other  prisoners,  struggled  hard.  Then  he  kissed  her, 
coldly. 

"Oh,  Archie,  Archie !"  was  all  she  could  say,  putting 
all  her  anguish,  her  distress,  her  sorrow,  her  impotent 
desire  to  help  into  the  varying  inflections  of  her  tone. 

"Oh,  Archie!  Archie!  Archie T 


4C»      THE  TURN   OF.  THE  BALANCE 

She  spoke  his  name  this  last  time  as  if  she  must 
find  reHef  by  wringing  her  whole  soul  into  it.  Then 
she  stood,  biting  her  lip  as  if  to  stop  its  quivering. 
Archie,  on  his  part,  looked  at  her  a  moment,  then  at 
the  floor. 

''Say  you  didn't  do  it,  Archie." 

"Do  what?" 

"You  know—" 

"You  mean  Kouka?" 

"Oh,  no,"  she  said,  impatient  with  the  question. 

"That  Flanagan  job  ?" 

She  nodded  rapidly. 

"Of  course  not ;  you  ought  to  know  that.  Every  one 
knows  that — even  the  coppers."  His  sentence  ended 
with  a  sneer  cast  in  the  officer's  direction.  And  Gusta 
sighed. 

"Fm  so  glad !"  she  said,  her  bosom  rising  and  falling 
in  relief.    "They  all  said — " 

"Oh,  that's  just  the  frame-up,"  said  Archie.  "They'd 
job  me  for  it  quick  enough."  He  was  sneering  again 
at  the  officer,  as  incarnating  the  whole  police  system, 
and  his  face  was  darkened  by  a  look  of  all  hatred  and 
malignity.    The  officer  smiled  calmly. 

"Fm  so  glad,"  Gusta  was  smiling  now.  "But — "  she 
began.  Her  lip  quivered;  the  tears  started  afresh. 
"What  about  the  other  ?" 

"That  was  self-defense;  he  agitated  me  to  it.  But 
don't  let's  talk  before  that  copper  there — "  He  could 
not  avert  his  look  of  hatred  from  the  officer,  whose  face 
was  darkening,  as  he  plucked  nervously  at  his  mus- 
tache. 

"He'd  say  anything — that's  his  business,"  Archie 
went  on,  unable  to  restrain  himself. 


THE   TURN   OF   THE   BALANCE      401 

"Sh!    Don't,  Archie rCusta  said.    "Don't!" 

Archie  drew  in  full  breaths,  inflating  his  white 
chest.  The  officer  returned  his  look  of  hatred,  his 
bronzed  face  had  taken  on  a  shade  of  green;  the  two 
men  struggled  silently,  then  controlled  themselves. 
Gusta  was  trying  again  to  choke  down  her  sobs. 

"How's  father  ?"  Archie  asked,  after  a  silence,  striv- 
ing for  a  commonplace  tone. 

"He's  well,— I  guess." 

"He  knows,  does  he  ?" 

"I— don't  know." 

"What!  Why — can't  you  tell  him?  He  could  get 
down  here,  couldn't  he  ?  He  had  a  crutch  when  I  was 
there." 

She  was  silent,  her  head  drooped,  the  flowers  in  her 
hat  brushed  the  bars  at  Archie's  face.  She  thrust  the 
toe  of  a  patent-leather  boot  between  the  bars  at  the 
bottom  of  the  door.  The  tips  of  her  gloved  fingers 
touched  the  bars  lightly;  there  was  a  slight  odor  of 
perfume  in  the  entry-way. 

"You  see,"  she  said,  "I — I  can't  go  out  there — any 
more."  Her  tears  were  falling  on  the  cement  floor,  fall- 
ing beside  the  iron  bucket  in  which  was  kept  the  water 
for  the  prisoners  to  drink. 

"Oh !"  said  Archie  coldly. 

She  looked  up  suddenly,  read  the  meaning  of  his 
changed  expression,  and  then  she  pressed  her  face 
against  the  bars  tightly,  and  cried  out : 

"Oh,  Archie!    Don't!    Don't!" 

He  was  hard  with  her. 

"By  God !"  he  said.  "I  don't  know  why  you  should 
have— oh,  hell !" 

He  whirled  on  his  heel,  as  if  he  would  go  away. 


402   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

She  clung  to  the  bars,  pressing  her  face  against 
them,  trying,  as  it  were,  to  thrust  her  lips  through 
them. 

"Oh,  Archie !"  she  said.  "Archie !  Don't  do  that— 
don't  go  that  way!  Listen — listen — listen  to  your  sis- 
ter! I'm  the  same  old  Gus — ^honest,  honest,  Archie! 
Listen !    Look  at  me !" 

He  had  thrust  his  hands  into  his  pockets  and  walked 
to  the  end  of  the  corridor.  He  paused  there  a  moment, 
then  turned  and  came  back. 

"Say,  Gus,"  he  said,  "I  wish  you'd  go  tell  Mr.  Mar- 
riott I  want  to  see  him  again.  And  say,  if  you  go  out 
to  the  house,  see  if  you  can't  find  that  shirt  of  mine 
with  the  white  and  pink  stripes — you  know.  I  guess 
mother  knows  where  it  is.    Do  that  now.    And — " 

"Time's  up,"  said  the  officer.    "I've  got  to  go." 

"And  come  down  to-morrow,  Gus,"  said  Archie. 
She  scarcely  heard  him  as  she  turned  to  go. 

"Hold  on !"  he  called,  pressing  his  face  to  the  bars. 
"Say !  Gus !  Come  here  a  minute." 

She  returned.  She  lifted  her  face,  and  he  kissed 
her  through  the  bars.  And  she  went  away,  with  sobs 
that  racked  her  whole  form. 

As  she  started  out  by  the  convenient  side  door  into 
the  alley,  the  officer  laid  a  hand  on  her  shoulder. 

"This  way,  young  woman." 

She  looked  at  him  a  moment. 

"You'd  better  go  out  the  other  door,"  he  said. 

She  climbed  the  steps  behind  him,  wondering  why 
one  door  would  not  do  as  well  as  another.  She  had 
always  gone  out  that  side  door  before.  When  they 
were  up-stairs,  passing  the  sergeant's  room,  he  touched 
her  again. 


THE   TURN   OF  THE   BALANCE      403 

"Hold  on,"  he  said. 

"What  do  you  want  ?"  she  asked  in  surprise, 

"I  guess  you'd  better  stay  here." 

"Why?"  she  exclaimed.  Her  surprise  had  become 
a  great  fear.  He  made  no  reply,  and  pushed  her  into 
the  sergeant's  room.  Then  he  whistled  into  a  tube — 
some  one  answered.  "Come  down,"  he  commanded. 
Presently  a  woman  appeared,  a  woman  with  gray  hair, 
in  a  blue  gingham  gown  something  like  a  nurse's  uni- 
form, with  a  metal  badge  on  her  full  breast. 

"Matron,"  said  the  officer,  "take  this  girl  in 
charge." 

"Why !  What  do  you  mean  ?"  Gusta  exclaimed,  her 
eyes  wide,  her  lips  parted.  "What  do  you  mean? 
What  have  I  done?    What  do  you — am  I — arrested f" 

"That's  what  they  call  it,"  said  the  officer. 

"But  what  for?" 

"You'll  find  out  in  time.  Take  her  up-stairs,  Ma- 
tron." 

Gusta  looked  at  the  officer,  then  at  the  matron.  Her 
face  was  perfectly  white. 

The  matron  drew  near,  put  her  arm  about  her,  and 
said: 

"Come  with  me." 

Gusta  swayed  uncertainly,  tottered,  then  dragged 
herself  off,  leaning  against  the  matron,  walking  as  if 
in  a  daze. 


IX 


It  had  been  montHs  since  Marriott  had  gone  up  those 
steps  at  the  Wards',  and  he  mounted  them  that  No- 
vember evening  with  a  regret  at  the  loss  of  the  old 
footing,  and  an  impatience  with  the  events  that  had 
kept  him  away.  He  had  waited  for  some  such  excuse 
as  Gusta's  commission  now  gave  him,  and  the  indigna- 
tion he  felt  at  the  girl's  arrest  was  not  strong  enough 
to  suppress  his  gratitude  for  the  opportunity  the  injus- 
tice opened  to  him.  He  was  sure  that  Elizabeth  knew 
he  was  to  defend  Archie ;  she  must  know  how  sensitive 
he  was  to  the  criticism  that  was  implied  in  the  tone 
with  which  the  newspapers  announced  the  fact.  The 
newspapers,  indeed,  had  shown  feeling  that  Archie 
should  be  represented  at  all.  They  had  published 
warnings  against  the  law's  delays,  of  which,  they  said, 
there  had  already  been  too  many  in  that  county,  for- 
getting how  they  had  celebrated  the  success  and 
promptness,  the  industry  and  enterprise  of  John  Eades, 
They  had  spoken  of  Archie  as  if  he  were  a  millionaire, 
about  to  evade  and  confound  law  and  justice  by  the 
use  of  money.  Marriott  told  himself,  bitterly,  that 
Elizabeth's  circle  would  discuss  the  tragedy  in  this 
same  tone,  and  speak  of  him  with  disappointment  and 
distrust;  that  was  the  attitude  his  own  friends  had 
adopted;  that  was  the  way  the  lawyers  and  judges 
even  had  spoken  to  him  of  it ;  he  recalled  how  cold  and 
disapproving  Eades  had  been.    This  recollection  gave 

404 


THE  TURN  on  THE  BALANCE      ^o^j 

Marriott  pause ;  would  it  not  now  be  natural  for  Eliza- 
beth to  take  Eades's  attitude?  He  shrank  from  the 
thought  and  wished  he  had  not  come,  but  he  was  at  the 
door  and  he  had  Gusta's  message — impossible  as  it 
seemed  after  all  these  thoughts  had  crossed  his  mind. 

She  received  him  in  her  old  manner,  without  any 
of  the  stiffness  he  had  feared  the  months  might  have 
made. 

"Ah,  Gordon,"  she  said.    "Fm  so  glad  you  came." 

She  led  the  way  swiftly  into  the  library.  A  little 
wood  fire,  against  the  chill  of  the  autumn  evening,  was 
blazing  in  the  wide  fireplace;  under  the  lamp  on  the 
broad  table  lay  a  book  she  must  have  put  down  a  mo- 
ment before. 

"What  have  you  been  reading?  Oh,  Walden!" 
And  he  turned  to  her  with  the  smile  of  their  old  com- 
radeship in  such  things. 

"I've  been  reading  it  again,  yes,"  she  said,  "and  I've 
wished  to  talk  it  over  again  with  you.  So  you  see  Fm 
glad  you  came." 

"I  came  with  a  message  from — " 
.  "Oh !"    The  bright  look  faded  from  her  eyes.  "Well, 
I'm  glad,  then,  that  some  one  sent  you  to  me." 

He  saw  his  mistake,  and  grieved  for  it. 

"I  wanted  to  come,"  he  stammered,  "I've  been  in- 
tending to  come,  Elizabeth,  anyway,  and — " 

He  felt  he  was  only  making  the  matter  worse,  and 
he  hated  himself  for  his  awkwardness. 

"Well,"  she  was  saying,  "sit  down  then,  and  tell  me 
whom  this  fortunate  message  is  from." 

She  leaned  back  in  her  chair,  rather  grandly,  he  felt. 
He  regretted  the  touch  of  formality  that  was  almost 
an  irony  in  her  speech.    But  he  thought  it  best  to  le^ 


4o6   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

it  pass, — they  could  get  back  to  the  old  footing  more 
quickly  if  they  did  it  that  way. 

"You'd  never  guess,"  he  said. 

"I'll  not  try.    Tell  me." 

"Gusta." 

"Gusta!"  Elizabeth  leaned  forward  eagerly,  and 
Marriott  thought  that  he  had  never  before  seen  her  so 
good  to  look  upon;  she  was  so  virile,  so  alive.  He 
noted  her  gray  eyes,  bright  with  interest  and  surprise, 
her  brown  hair,  too  soft  to  be  confined  in  any  conven- 
tional way,  and  worn  as  ever  with  a  characteristic  in- 
dependence that  recognized  without  succumbing  to 
fashion.  He  fixed  his  eyes  on  her  hands,  white,  strong, 
full  of  character.  And  he  bemoaned  the  loss  of  those 
months ;  why,  he  wondered,  had  he  been  so  absurd  ? 

"Gusta !"  she  repeated.  "Where  did  you  see  Gusta  ?" 

"In  prison." 

"What!  No!  Oh,  Gordon!"  she  started  with  the 
shock,  and  Marriott  found  this  attitude  even  more  fas- 
cinating than  the  last ;  her  various  expressions  chang- 
ing swiftly,  responding  with  instant  sensitiveness  to 
every  new  influence  or  suggestion,  were  all  delightful. 

"What  for?  Tell  me !  Why  don't  you  tell  me,  Gor- 
don ?    Why  do  you  sit  there  ?" 

Her  eyes  flashed  a  reproach  at  him — and  he  smiled. 
He  was  wholly  at  ease  now. 

"For  nothing.  She's  done  nothing.  She  went  to  see 
Archie,  and  the  police,  stupid  and  brutal  as  usual,  de- 
tained her.  That's  all ;  they  placed  the  charge  of  sus- 
picion against  her  to  satisfy  the  law.    The  law !" 

He  sneered  out  the  word. 

Elizabeth  had  fallen  back  in  her  chair  with  an  ex- 
pression of  pain. 


^ 


THE  TURN   op:  THE   BALANCE      407 

"Oh,  Gordon!"  she  said  with  a  shudder.  "Isn't  it 
horrible,  horrible !" 

"Horrible!"  he  echoed. 

"That  poor  Koerner  family !  What  can  the  fates  be 
about?  You  know — ^you  know  it  all  seems  to  come  so 
near.  Such  things  happen  in  the  world,  of  course, 
every  day  the  newspapers,  the  dreadful  newspapers, 
are  filled  with  them.  But  they  never  were  real  at  all, 
because  they  never  happened  to  people  I  knew.  But 
this  comes  so  near.  Just  think.  I've  seen  that  Archie 
Koerner,  and  he  has  spoken  to  me,  and  to  think  of  him 
now,  a  murderer !    Will — ^they  hang  him  ?" 

She  leaned  forward  earnestly. 

"No,"  he  said  slowly.  "They  may  electrocute  him 
though — to  use  their  barbarous  word." 

"And  now  Gusta's  in  prison!"  Elizabeth  went  on, 
forgetting  Archie.  "But  her  message!  You  haven't 
given  me  her  message !" 

Marriott  waited  a  moment,  perhaps  in  his  inability 
to  forego  the  theatrical  possibilities  of  the  situation. 

"She  wants  you — to  come  to  her." 

Elizabeth  stared  at  him  blankly. 

"To  come  to  her?" 

"Yes." 

"In  prison?" 

"Yes." 

Her  brows  contracted,  her  eyes  winked  rapidly. 

"But  Gordon,  how — ^how  can  I  ?" 

"I  don't  know."  He  sat  at  his  ease  in  the  great 
chair,  enjoying  the  meaning,  the  whole  significance  of 
her  predicament.  He  had  already  appreciated  its  dif- 
ficulties, its  impossibilities,  and  he  was  prepared  now 
to  wring  from  every  one  of  them  its  last  sensation. 


4o8      iTHE  iTURN   OF.  THE  BALANCE' 

Elizabeth,  with  her  elbow  on  the  arm  of  her  chair,  her 
laces  falling  away  from  her  white  forearm,  bit  her  lip 
delicately.  She  seemed  to  be  looking  at  the  toe  of  her 
suede  shoe. 

"Poor  little  thing!"  She  spoke  abstractedly,  as  if 
she  were  oblivious  to  Marriott's  presence.  He  was 
i satisfied;  it  was  good  just  then  to  sit,  merely,  and  look 
at  her.  "I  must  go  to  her."  And  then  suddenly  she 
looked  up  and  said  in  another  tone : 

"But  how  am  I  to  do  it,  Gordon  ?" 

He  did  not  answer  at  once  and  she  did  not  wait  for 
a  reply,  but  went  on,  speaking  rapidly,  her  eyes  in  a 
dark  glow  as  her  interest  was  intensified. 

"Isn't  it  a  peculiar  situation?  I  don't  know  how  to 
deal  with  it.  I  never  was  so  placed  before.  You  must 
see  the  difficulties,  Gordon.  People,  well,  people  don't 
go  to  such  places,  don't  you  know  ?  I  really  don't  see 
how  it  is  possible ;  it  makes  me  shudder  to  think  of  it ! 
Ugh !"  She  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "What  shall  you 
say  to  her,  Gordon  ?"  She  said  this  as  if  the  problem 
were  his,  not  hers,  and  showed  a  relief  in  this  transfer 
of  the  responsibility. 

"I  don't  know  yet,"  he  said.  "Whatever  you  tell 
me. 

"But  you  must  tell  Her  something;  you  must  make 
her  understand.  It  won't  do  for  you  to  hurt  the  poor 
girl's  feelings." 

"Well,  I'll  just  say  that  I  delivered  her  message  and 
that  you  wouldn't  come." 

"Oh,  Gordon!  How  could  you  be  so  cruel?  You 
certainly  would  not  be  so  heartless  as  to  say  I 
wouldn't!" 

"Well,  then,  that  you  couldn't" 


THE   TURN   OF   THE   BALANCE      409 

"But  she  would  want  a  reason,  and  she'd  be  entitled 
to  one.  What  one  could  you  give  her  ?  You  must 
think,  Gordon,  we  must  both  think,  and  decide  on 
something  that  will  help  you  out.  What  are  you  laugh- 
ing at?" 

"Why,  Elizabeth,"  he  said,  "it  isn't  my  predicament. 
It's  your  predicament." 

He  leaned  back  in  his  chair  comfortably,  in  an  at- 
titude of  irresponsibility. 

"How  can  you  sit  there,"  Elizabeth  said,  "and  leave 
it  all  to  me?" 

And  then  she  laughed, — and  was  grave  again. 

"Of  course,"  she  said.  "Well — I'm  sure  I  can't 
solve  it.  Poor  little  Gusta !  She  was  so  pretty  and  so 
good,  and  so — comfortable  to  have  around — don't  you 
know  ?  Really,  we've  never  had  a  maid  like  her.  She 
was  ideal.  And  now  to  think  of  her — iii  prison  1  Isn't 
it  awful?" 

Marriott  sat  with  half-closed  eyes  and  looked  at  her 
through  the  haze  of  his  lashes.  The  room  was  still; 
the  fire  burned  slowly  in  the  black  chimney ;  now  and 
then  the  oil  gurgled  cozily  in  the  lamp. 

"What  is  a  prison  like,  Gordon?  Is  it  really  such" 
an  awful  place  ?" 

Marriott  thought  of  the  miserable  room  in  the  wom- 
en's quarters,  with  its  iron  wainscoting,  the  narrow 
iron  bed ;  the  wooden  table  and  chair,  and  he  contrasted 
it  with  this  luxurious  library  of  the  Wards. 

"Well,"  he  said,  turning  rather  lazily  toward  the 
fire,  "it's  nothing  like  this." 

"But," — Elizabeth  looked  up  suddenly  with  the  ea- 
gerness of  a  new  idea, — "can't  you  get  her  out  on  bail — 
isn't  that  what  it's  called?    Can't  you  get  some  kind 


4IO   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

of  document,  some  writ? — ^yes,  that's  it."  She  spoke 
with  pleasure  because  she  had  found  a  word  with  a 
legal  sound.  "Get  a  writ.  Surely  you  are  a  lawyer 
clever  enough  to  get  her  out.  I  always  thought  that 
any  one  could  get  out  of  prison  if  he  had  a  good  law- 
yer. The  papers  all  say  so." 
'     "You  get  in  prison  once  and  see,"  said  Marriott. 

"Mercy,  I  expect  to  be  in  prison  next!"  Elizabeth 
exclaimed.  "Prisons!  We  seem  to  have  had  nothing 
but  prisons  for  a  year  or  more.  I  don't  know  what 
started  it — first  it  was  that  poor  Harry  Graves,  then 
Archie,  and  now  it's  Gusta.  And  you  talk  of  them 
and  John  Eades  talks  of  them — and  I  had  to  see  them 
one  night  taking  some  prisoners  to  the  penitentiary. 
I'd  never  even  thought  of  prisons  before,  but  since 
then  I've  thought  of  nothing  else;  I've  lived  in  an 
atmosphere  of  prisons.  It's  just  like  a  new  word,  one 
you  never  heard  before, — you  see  it  some  day,  and  then 
you're  constantly  running  across  it.  Don't  you  know  ? 
It's  the  same  way  with  history — I  never  knew  who 
Pestalozzi  was  until  the  other  day ;  never  had  heard  of 
him.  But  I  saw  his  name  in  Emerson,  then  looked 
him  up — now  everything  I  read  mentions  him.  And 
oh !  the  memory  of  those  men  they  were  taking  to  the 
penitentiary!  I'll  never  escape  it!  I  see  their  faces 
always !" 

"Were  they  such  bad  faces  ?" 

"Oh,  no !  such  poor,  pale,  pathetic  faces !  Just  like 
a  page  from  a  Russian  novel !" 

The  memory  brought  pain  to  her  eyes,  and  she  suf- 
fered a  moment.  Then  she  sat  erect  and  folded  her 
hands  with  determination. 

"We  might  as  well  face  it,  Gordon,  of  course.    I 


m 


Y:' 


THE   TURN   OF   THE   BALANCE      411 

just  can't  go;  you  see  that,  don't  you?  What  shall 
we  do  ?" 

"You  might  try  your  Organized  Charities."  His 
eyes  twinkled. 

"Don't  ever  mention  that  to  me,"  she  commanded. 
"I  never  want  to  hear  the  word.  That's  a  page  from 
my  past  that  I'm  ashamed  of." 

"Ashamed !    Of  the  Organized  Charities  ?" 

"Oh,  Gordon,  I  needn't  tell  you  what  a  farce  that  is 
— you  know  it  is  organized  not  to  help  the  poor,  but 
to  help  the  rich  to  forget  the  poor,  to  keep  the  poor  at 
a  distance,  where  they  can't  reproach  you  and  prick 
your  conscience.  The  Organized  Charities  is  an  insti- 
tution for  the  benefit  of  the  unworthy  rich."  Her  eyes 
showed  her  pleasure  in  her  epigram,  and  they  both 
laughed.  But  the  pleasure  could  not  last  long;  in  an- 
other instant  Elizabeth's  hands  fell  to  her  lap,  and  she 
looked  at  Marriott  soberly.  Then  she  said,  with  hope- 
less conviction : 

"I  just  can't  go,  Gordon." 

Before  Marriott  could  reply  there  was  a  sense  of  in- 
terruption; he  heard  doors  softly  open  and  close,  the 
muffled  and  proper  step  of  a  maid,  the  well-known 
sounds  that  told  him  that  somewhere  in  the  house  a 
bell  had  rung.  In  another  moment  he  heard  voices  in 
the  hall ;  a  laugh  of  familiarity,  more  steps, — and  then 
Eades  and  Modderwell  and  Mrs.  Ward  entered  the 
room.  Elizabeth  cast  at  Marriott  a  quick  glance  of 
disappointment  and  displeasure;  his  heart  leaped,  he 
wondered  if  it  were  because  of  Eades's  coming.  Then 
he  decided,  against  his  will,  that  it  was  because  of 
Modderwell.  A  constraint  came  over  him,  he  sud- 
denly  felt   it   impossible   that   he   should    speak,   he 


»    1 


412   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

withdrew  wholly  within  himself,  and  sat  with  an  air  of 
detachment. 

The  clergyman,  stooping  an  instant  to  chafe  his 
palms  before  the  fire,  had  taken  a  chair  close  to  Eliza- 
beth, and  he  now  began  making  remarks  about  noth- 
ing, his  clean,  ruddy  face  smiling  constantly,  showing 
his  perfect  teeth,  his  eyes  roving  over  Elizabeth's 
figure. 

"Well!  Well!  Well!"  he  cried.  "What  grave  ques- 
tions have  you  two  been  deciding  this  time  ?'* 

Elizabeth  glanced  at  Marriott,  whose  face  was 
drawn,  then  at  Eades,  who  sat  there  in  the  full  pro- 
priety of  his  evening  clothes,  then  at  her  mother,  seated 
in  what  was  considered  the  correct  attitude  for  a  lady 
on  whom  her  rector  had  called. 

"I  think  it's  good  we  came,  eh,  Eades?"  the  clergy- 
man went  on,  without  waiting  for  an  answer.  "It  is 
not  good  for  you  to  be  too  serious,  Miss  Elizabeth, — 
my  pastoral  calls  are  meant  as  much  as  anything  to 
take  people  out  of  themselves."  He  laughed  again  in 
his  abundant  self-satisfaction  and  reclined  comfortably 
in  his  chair.  And  he  rolled  his  head  in  his  clerical  col- 
lar, with  a  smile  to  show  Elizabeth  how  he  regarded 
duties  that  in  all  propriety  must  not  be  considered  too 
seriously  or  too  sincerely.  But  Elizabeth  did  not  smile. 
She  met  his  eyes  calmly. 

"Dear  me,"  he  said,  mocking  her  gravity.  "It  must 
have  been  serious." 

"It  was,"  said  Elizabeth  soberly.  "It  was^the  mur- 
der!" 

"The  murder !  Shocking !"  said  Modderwell.  "I've 
read  something  about  it.  The  newspapers  say  the 
identification  of  Koerner  by  that  poor  old  woman  was 


THE  TURN  of:  THE  BALANCE      413; 

complete  and  positive;  they  say  the  shock  was  sucH 
that  she  fainted,  and  that  he  stood  there  all  the  time 
and  sneered.  I  hope,  Eades,  you  will  see  that  the 
wretch  gets  his  deserts  promptly,  and  send  him  to  the 
gallows,  where  he  belongs !" 

''Marriott  here  doesn't  join  you  in  that  wish,  I 
know,"  said  Eades. 

*'No?  Why  not?"  asked  Modderwell.  "Surely 
he—" 

"He's  going  to  defend  the  murderer."  Eades  spoke 
in  a  tone  that  had  a  sting  for  Marriott. 

"Oh !"  said  Modderwell  rather  coldly.  "I  don't  see 
how  you  can  do  such  a  thing,  Marriott.  For  your  own 
sake,  as  much  as  anybody's,  I'm  sorry  I  can't  wish  you 
success." 

"I  wish  he  hadn't  undertaken  the  task,"  said  Eades. 

"I'm  sure  it  must  be  most  disagreeable,"  said  Mrs. 
Ward,  feeling  that  she  must  say  something. 

"Why  do  you  wish  it?"  said  Marriott,  suddenly 
turning  almost  savagely  on  Eades. 

"Why,"  said  Eades,  elevating  his  brows  in  a  su- 
perior way,  "I  don't  like  to  see  you  in  such  work.  A 
criminal  practice  is  the  disreputable  part  of  the  pro- 
fession." 

"But  you  have  a  criminal  practice." 

"Oh,  but  on  the  other  side !"  said  Modderwell.  "And 
we  all  expect  so  much  better  things  of  Mr.  Marriott." 

"Oh,  don't  trouble  yourselves  about  me !"  said  Mar- 
riott. "I'm  sure  I  prefer  my  side  of  the  case  to 
Eades's." 

The  atmosphere  was  surcharged  with  bitterness. 
Mrs.  Ward  gave  a  sidelong  glance  of  pain,  deprecating 
such  a  contretemps. 


414   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

"And  Fm  going  to  try  to  save  him,"  Marriott  was 
forging  on. 

"Well,"  said  Eades,  looking  down  on  his  large  oval 
polished  nails,  and  speaking  in  a  tone  that  would  final- 
ly dispose  of  the  problem,  "for  my  part,  I  revere  the 
law  and  I  want  to  see  it  enforced." 

"Exactly !"  Modderwell  agreed.  "And  if  there  were 
fewer  delays  in  bringing  these  criminals  to  justice, 
there  would  be  fewer  lynchings  and  more  respect  for 
the  law." 

Marriott  did  not  even  try  to  conceal  the  disgust  with 
which  he  received  this  hackneyed  and  conventional 
formula  of  thoughtless  respectability.  He  felt  that  it 
was  useless  to  argue  with  Eades  or  Modderwell;  it 
seemed  to  him  that  they  had  never  thought  seriously 
of  such  questions,  and  would  not  do  so,  but  that  they 
were  merely  echoing  speeches  they  had  heard  all  their 
lives,  inherited  speeches  that  had  been  in  vogue  for 
generations,  ages,  one  might  say. 

"I  am  sure  it  must  be  a  most  disagreeable  task," 
Mrs.  Ward  was  saying,  looking  at  her  daughter  in  the 
hope  that  Elizabeth  might  relieve  a  situation  with 
which  she  felt  herself  powerless  to  deal.  Marriott 
seemed  always  to  be  introducing  such  topics,  and  she 
had  the  distaste  of  her  class  for  the  real  vital  questions 
of  life.  But  Elizabeth  was  speaking. 
'  "Fm  sure  that  Gordon's  task  isn't  more  disagreeable 
than  mine." 

"Yours  ?"  Mrs.  Ward  turned  toward  her  daughter, 
dreading  things  even  worse  now. 

"Yes,"  replied  Elizabeth,  looking  about  in  pleasure 
at  the  surprise  she  had  created. 

"Why,  what  problem  have  you  ?"  asked  Modderwell 


THE   TURN    OF   THE   BALANCE       415 

"Fve  been  sent  for — to  come  to  the  prison  to  see — " 

"Not  himT  said  Modderwell. 

Eades  started  suddenly  forward. 

"No,"  said  Elizabeth  calmly,  enjoying  the  situation, 
"his  sister." 

"His  sister!" 

"Yes,"  she  turned  to  her  mother.  "You  know,  dear  ; 
Gusta.    She's  been  arrested." 

"Oh!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Ward.  "Elizabeth!  The 
idea!  What  impertinence!  Who  could  have  brought 
such  an  insolent  message!"  She  looked  at  Marriott, 
as  did  the  others. 

"The  idea!"  Mrs.  Ward  went  on.  "Why,  I  had  no 
notion  he  was  her  brother.  To  think  of  our  harboring 
such  people!" 

Mrs.  Ward  stiffened  in  her  chair,  with  glances  from 
time  to  time  for  Marriott  and  Elizabeth,  in  an  attitude 
of  chilling  and  austere  social  disapproval ;  then,  as  if 
she  had  forgotten  to  claim  the  reassurance  she  felt  to 
be  certain,  she  leaned  forward,  out  of  the  attitude  as  it 
were,  to  say : 

"Of  course  you  sent  the  reply  her  assurance  de- 
served." 

"No,"  said  Elizabeth  in  a  bird-like  tone,  "I  didn't. 
What  would  you  do,  Mr.  Eades  ?" 

"Why,  of  course  you  could  not  go  to  a  prison,"  re- 
plied Eades. 

"But  you  could,  couldn't  you  ?    And  you  do  ?" 

"Only  when  necessary." 

"But  you  do,  Mr.  Modderwell  ?" 

"Only  professionally,"  said  Modderwell  solemnly, 
for  once  remembering  his  clerical  dignity. 

"Oh,  professionally!"  said  Elizabeth  with  a  meaning. 


4X6      THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

"You  go  professionally,  too,  Gordon,  don't  you?  And 
I — I  can't  go  that  way.  I  can  go  only — what  shall  I 
say  ? — ^humanly  ?    So  I  suppose  I  can't  go  at  all !" 

"Certainly  not,"  said  Mrs.  Ward.  "How  can  you 
ask  such  a  question  ?"  She  was  now  too  disapproving 
for  words.  "I  can  not  consent  to  your  going  at  all,  so 
let  that  end  it.'* 

"But,  Mr.  Modderwell,"  said  Elizabeth,  with  a  smile 
for  her  mother,  "we  pray,  don't  we,  every  Sunday  for 
'pity  upon  all  prisoners  and  captives'  ?" 

"That's  entirely  different,"  said  Modderwell. 

"What  does  it  mean, — 'I  was  in  prison  and  ye  vis- 
ited me'  ?"  She  sat  with  her  hands  folded  in  humility, 
as  if  seeking  wisdom  and  instruction. 

"That  was  in  another  day,"  said  Modderwell.  "So- 
ciety was  not  organized  then  as  it  is  now;  it  was — all 
different,  of  course."  Modderwell  went  on  groping 
for  justification.  "If  these  people  are  repentant — 
are  seeking  to  turn  from  their  wickedness,  the  church 
has  appointed  the  clergy  to  visit  them  and  give  them 
instruction." 

"Then  perhaps  you'd  better  go!"  Elizabeth's  eyes 
sparkled,  and  she  looked  at  Modderwell,  who  feared  a 
joke  or  a  trap ;  then  at  Eades,  who  was  almost  as  deep- 
ly distressed  as  Mrs.  Ward,  and  then  at  Marriott, 
whose  eyes  showed  the  relish  with  which  he  enjoyed 
the  situation. 

"I  don't  think  she  wishes  to  see  me,"  said  Modder- 
well, with  a  significance  that  did  not  have  a  tribute  for 
Gusta.  No  one  disputed  him,  and  there  was  silence, 
in  which  Eades  looked  intently  at  Elizabeth,  and  then, 
just  as  he  seemed  on  the  point  of  speaking  to  her,  he 
turned  to  Marriott  and  said : 


THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE      417 

"You  certainly  don't  think  that  a  proper  place  for 
her  to  go  ?" 

"Oh,"  said  Marriott,  "don't  refer  to  me ;  I'm  out  of 
it.  I've  been,  I  brought  the  message — it's — it's  up  to 
Elizabeth." 

"Well,"  said  Eades,  turning  to  Elizabeth,  "you  sure- 
ly can't  be  seriously  considering  such  a  thing.  You 
don't  know,  of  course,  what  kind  of  place  that  is,  or 
what  kind  of  people  you  would  be  going  among,  or 
what  risks  you  would  be  exposing  yourself  to." 

"There  would  be  no  danger,  would  there?"  said 
Elizabeth  in  her  most  innocent  manner.  "There  would 
be  plenty  of  policemen  at  hand,  wouldn't  there, — in 
case  of  need  ?" 

"Well,  I  don't  think  you'd  willingly  elect  to  go 
among  policemen,"  said  Eades. 

"Perhaps  you  three  would  go  with"  me?"  suggested 
Elizabeth.  "I'd  be  safe  then — all  I'd  lack  would  be  a 
physician  to  make  my  escort  completely  representative 
of  the  learned  professions." 

"The  newspaper  men  would  be  there,"  said  Eades, 
"you  may  be  sure  of  that,  and  the  publicity — " 

At  the  word  "publicity"  Mrs.  Ward  cringed  with 
genuine  alarm. 

"Do  you  find  publicity  so  annoying?"  asked  Eliza- 
beth, smiling  on  the  three  men. 

"Elizabeth !"  said  Mrs.  Ward,  "I  do  wish  you'd  stop 
this  nonsense !  It  may  seem  very  amusing  to  you,  but  I 
assure  you  it  is  not  amusing  to  me ;  I  find  it  very  dis- 
tressing." She  looked  her  distress,  and  then  turned 
away  in  the  disgust  that  was  a  part  of  her  distress. 
"It  would  be  shocking!"  she  said,  when  she  seemed  to 
them  all  to  have  had  her  say. 


4i8   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

"rm  sorry  to  shock  you  all,"  said  Elizabeth  meekly. 
'Tt*s  very  kind  of  you,  I'm  sure,  to  act  as  mentors  and 
censors  of  my  conduct.  I  feel  sufficiently  put  down; 
you  have  helped  me  to  a  decision.  I  have  decided, 
after  hearing  your  arguments,  and  out  of  deference  to 
your  sentiments  and  opinions,  to — " 

They  all  looked  up  expectantly. 

" — ^to  go,"  she  concluded. 

She  smiled  on  them  all  with  serenity;  and  they 
looked  at  her  with  that  blank  helplessness  that  came 
over  them  whenever  they  tried  to  understand  her. 


X 


Though  Elizabeth,  as  long  as  Eades  and  Modder- 
well  were  there,  had  chosen  to  satirize  her  predica- 
ment, and  had  experienced  the  pleasure  of  shocking 
them  by  the  decision  she  reached,  she  found  when  they 
had  gone  that  night,  and  she  was  alone  in  her  room, 
that  it  was  no  decision  at  all.  The  situation  presented 
itself  in  all  seriousness,  and  she  found  that  she  must 
deal  with  it,  not  in  any  whimsical  spirit,  but  in  sober 
earnestness.  She  found  it  to  be  a  real  problem,  in- 
capable of  isolation  from  those  artificialities  which 
were  all  that  made  it  a  problem.  She  had  found  it 
easy  and  simple  enough,  and  even  proper  and  respect- 
able to  visit  the  poor  in  their  homes,  but  when  she  con- 
templated visiting  them  in  the  prisons  which  seemed 
made  for  them  alone,  and  were  too  often  so  much  bet- 
ter than  their  homes,  obstacles  at  once  arose.  As 
she  more  accurately  imagined  these  obstacles,  they 
became  formidable.  She  sat  by  the  table  in  her 
room,  under  the  reading-lamp  that  stood  among  the 
books  she  kept  beside  her,  and  determined  to  think 
it  out.  She  made  elaborate  preparations,  deciding 
to  marshal  all  the  arguments  and  then  make  deduc- 
tions and  comparisons,  and  thus,  by  a  process  al- 
most mathematical,  determine  what  to  do.  But  she 
never  got  beyond  the  preparations ;  her  mind  worked, 
after  all,  intuitively,  she  felt  rather  than  thought; 
she  imagined  herself,  in  the  morning,  going  to  the 

419 


420      THE  TURN   OF.  THE   BALANCE 

police  station,  confronting  the  officers,  finally,  perhaps, 
seeing  Gusta.  She  saw  clearly  what  her  family, 
her  friends,  her  set,  the  people  she  knew,  would  say 
— how  horrified  they  would  be,  how  they  would  judge 
and  condemn  her.  Her  mother,  Eades  and  Mod- 
derwell  accurately  represented  the  world  she  knew. 
And  the  newspapers,  in  their  eagerness  for  every  de- 
tail touching  the  tragedy,  however  remotely,  would 
publish  the  fact !  "This  morning  Miss  Elizabeth  Ward, 
daughter  of  Stephen  Ward,  the  broker,  called  on  the 
Koerner  girl.  Fashionably  dressed — "  She  could  al- 
ready see  the  cold  black  types !  It  was  impossible,  un- 
heard of.  Gusta  had  no  right — ah,  Gusta !  She  saw 
the  girl's  face,  pretty  as  ever,  but  sad  now,  and  stained 
by  tears,  pleading  for  human  companionship  and  sym- 
pathy. She  remembered  how  Gusta  had  served  her 
almost  slavishly,  how  she  had  sat  up  at  night  for  her, 
and  helped  her  at  her  toilet,  sending  delicious  little 
thrills  through  her  by  the  magnetic  touch  of  her  soft 
fingers.  If  she  should  send  for  Gusta,  how  quickly  she 
would  come,  though  she  had  to  crawl ! 

And  what,  after  all,  was  it  that  made  it  hard  ?  What 
had  decreed  that  she,  one  girl,  should  not  go  to  see  an- 
other girl  who  was  in  trouble  ?  Such  a  natural  human 
action  was  dictated  by  the  ethics  and  by  the  religion 
of  her  kind  and  by  all  the  teachings  of  her  church,  and 
yet,  when  it  was  proposed  to  practise  these  precepts, 
she  found  them  treated  cynically,  as  if  they  were  of  no 
worth  or  meaning.  That  very  evening  the  representa- 
tives of  the  law  and  of  theology  had  urged  against  it ! 

At  breakfast  her  mother  sat  at  table  with  her. 
Mrs.  Ward  had  breakfasted  an  hour  earlier  with  her 
husband,  but  she  had  a  kindly  way  of  following  the 


[THE  TURN   OF.  THE  BALANCE      421 

members  of  her  family  one  after  another  to  the  table, 
and  of  entertaining  them  while  they  ate.  She  had  told 
her  husband  of  Elizabeth's  contemplated  visit  to  the 
prison,  and  then  had  decided  to  say  nothing  of  it  to 
Elizabeth,  in  the  hope  that  the  whim  would  have  passed 
with  the  night.  But  Mrs.  Ward  could  not  long  keep 
anything  in  her  heart,  and  she  was  presently  saying : 

"I  hope,  dear,  that  you  have  given  up  that  notion  of 
going  to  see  Gusta.  I  hope,"  she  quickly  added,  put- 
ting it  in  the  way  she  wished  she  had  put  it  at  first, 
"that  you  see  your  duty  more  clearly  this  morning." 

"No,"  said  Elizabeth,  idly  tilting  a  china  cup  in  her 
fingers,  and  allowing  the  light  that  came  through  the 
tall,  broad  windows  to  fill  it  with  the  golden  luminos- 
ity of  the  sun,  "I  don't  see  it  clearly  at  all.  I  wish  I 
did." 

"Don't  you  think,  dear,  that  you  allow  yourself  to 
grow  morbid,  pondering  over  your  duty  so  much?" 

"I  don't  think  I'm  morbid."  She  would  as  readily 
have  admitted  that  she  was  superstitious  as  that  she 
was  morbid. 

"You  have — ^what  kind  of  conscience  was  it  that  Mr. 
Parrish  was  talking  about  the  other  night?"  Mrs. 
Ward  knitted  the  brows  that  life  had  marked  so  lightly. 

"New  England,  I  suppose,"  Elizabeth  answered 
wearily.  "But  I  have  no  New  England  conscience, 
mama.  I  have  very  little  conscience  at  all,  and  as  for 
my  duty,  I  almost  never  do  it.  I  am  perfectly  aware 
that  if  I  did  my  duty  I  should  lead  an  entirely  different 
life ;  but  I  don't ;  I  go  on  weakly,  day  after  day,  year 
after  year,  leading  a  perfectly  useless  existence,  sur- 
rounded by  wholly  artificial  duties,  and  now  these 
same  artificial  duties  keep  me  from  performing  my 


422   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

real  duty — which,  just  now,  seems  to  me  to  go  and  see 
poor  little  Gusta." 

Mrs.  Ward  was  more  disturbed,  now  that  her  daugh- 
ter saw  her  duty,  than  she  had  been  a  moment  before, 
when  she  had  declared  she  could  not  see  it. 

"I  do  wish  you  could  be  like  other  girls,"  she  said, 
speaking  her  thought  as  her  habit  was. 

"I  am,"  said  Elizabeth,  "am  I  not?" 

"Well,"  Mrs.  Ward  qualified. 

**In  all  except  one  thing." 

Mrs.  Ward  looked  her  question. 

"I'm  not  getting  married  very  fast." 

"No,"  said  Mrs.  Ward. 

Elizabeth  laughed  for  the  first  time  that  morning. 

"You  dear  little  mother,  I  really  believe  you're  anx- 
ious to  get  rid  of  me !" 

"Why,  Elizabeth !"  said  Mrs.  Ward,  lifting  her  eyes 
and  then  lowering  them  suddenly,  in  her  reproach. 
"How  can  you  say  such  a  thing !" 

"But  never  mind,"  Elizabeth  went  on : 

"  'If  no  one  ever  marries  me  I  sha'n't  mind  very  much ; 
I  shall  buy  a  squirrel  in  a  cage  and  a  little  rabbit  hutch. 
I  shall  have  a  cottage  in  a  wood,  and  a  pony  all  my  own, 
And  a  little  lamb  quite  clean  and  tame  that  I  can  take  to  town. 
And  when  I'm  getting  really  old — at  twenty-eight  or  nine — 
I  shall  buy  a  little  orphan  girl  and  bring  her  up  as  mine." 

She  smiled  as  she  finished  her  quotation,  and  then 
suddenly  sobered  as  she  said : 

"I'm  twenty-seven  already !" 

"Who  wrote  that?"  asked  Mrs.  Ward. 

"Alma-Tadema." 

"Oh!  I  thought  Mr.  Marriott  might  have  done  it. 
It's  certainly  very  silly." 


'      THE  TURN   OF  THE   BALANCE      423 

Nora  had  brought  her  breakfast,  and  the  action  re- 
called Gusta  to  Elizabeth. 

"What  did  papa  say — ^about  my  going  to  the 
prison  ?" 

"He  said,"  Mrs.  Ward  began  gladly,  "that,  of 
course,  we  all  felt  very  sorry  for  Gusta,  but  that  you 
couldn't  go  there.  He  said  it  would  be  absurd;  that 
you  don't  understand."  Mrs.  Ward  was  silent  for  a 
moment,  knowing  how  much  greater  the  father's  in- 
fluence was  than  her  own.  She  was  glad  that  Eliza- 
beth seemed  altogether  docile  and  practicable  this 
morning. 

,  "There's  a  good  girl  now,"  Mrs.  Ward  added  in  the 
hope  of  pressing  her  advantage  home. 

Elizabeth  gave  a  little  start  of  irritability. 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't  talk  to  me  in  that  way,  mama. 
I'm  not  a  child." 

"But  surely  your  father  knows  best,  dear,"  the 
mother  insisted,  "more  than — we  do." 

"Not  necessarily,"  said  Elizabeth. 

"Why!  How  can  you  say  so!"  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Ward,  who  bowed  to  all  authority  as  a  part  of  her  re- 
ligion. 

"Papa  takes  merely  the  conventional  view,"  Eliza- 
beth went  on,  "and  the  conventional  view  is  taken 
without  thought." 

"But — surely — "  Mrs.  Ward  stammered,  in  the  im- 
potence of  one  who,  easily  convinced  without  reasons, 
has  no  reasons  at  command — "surely — ^you  heard  what 
Mr.  Modderwell  and  Mr.  Eades  said." 

"Their  view  is  conventional,"  said  Elizabeth,  "and 
proper."  She  gave  a  little  curl  of  her  lip  as  she  spoke 
this  last  word. 


424   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE   ^ 

"Well,  I'm  sure,  dear,  that  we  all  wish  to  be  proper, 
and  Mr.  Modderwell  and  Mr.  Eades — " 

"Oh!  Don't  quote  those  two  men  to  me!  Two 
such  prigs,  such  Pharisees,  I  never  saw !" 

Mrs.  Ward  looked  at  her  daughter  in  a  new  horror. 
"Why,  Elizabeth !  I'm  surprised— I  thought  that  Mr. 
Eades  especially — " 

"Well,  don't  you  think  Mr.  Eades  especially  at  all ! 
He's  not  especially ;  he  thinks  he  is,  no  doubt,  and  so 
does  everybody  else,  but  they  have  no  right  to,  and 
hereafter  Mr.  Eades  can't  come  here — that's  all!" 
Her  eyes  were  flashing. 

Mrs.  Ward  ventured  no  further  just  then,  but  pres- 
ently resumed: 

"Think  what  people  would  say !" 

"Oh,  mother!  Please  don't  use  that  argument.  I 
have  often  told  you  that  I  don't  care  at  all  what 
people  say." 

"I  only  wish  you  cared  more."  She  looked  at  Eliza- 
beth helplessly  a  moment  and  then  broke  out  with  what 
she  had  been  tempted  all  along  to  say. 

"It's  that  Gordon  Marriott !  That's  what  it  Is !  He 
has  such  strange,  wild  notions.  He  defends  these 
criminals,  it  seems.  I  don't  see  how  he  can  approve 
their  actions  the  way  he  does." 

"Why,  mother!"  said  Elizabeth.  "How  you  talk! 
You  might  think  I  was  a  little  child  with  no  mind  of 
my  own.  And  besides,  Gordon  does  not  approve  of 
their  actions,  he  disapproves  of  their  actions,  but  he 
recognizes  them  as  people,  as  human  beings,  just  like 
us—" 

"Just  like  us!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Ward,  withdrawing 
herself  wholly  from  any  contact  with  the  mere  sug- 


THE  TURN   OF,  THE   BALANCE      425 

gestion.  "J^^^t  like  us,  Indeed!  Well,  I'd  have  him 
know  they're  not  like  us,  at  all !" 

Elizabeth  saw  how  hopeless  it  was  to  try  to  make  her 
mother  understand  Marriott's  attitude,  especially  when 
she  found  it  difficult  to  understand  it  herself. 

"Just  like  us,  indeed !"  Mrs.  Ward  repeated.  "You 
are  certainly  the  most  astonishing  girl." 

"What's  the  excitement?" 

It  was  Dick,  just  entering  the  room.  He  was  clean- 
shaved,  and  glowing  from  his  plunge,  his  face  ruddy 
and  his  eyes  bright.  He  was  good-humored  that  morn- 
ing, for  he  had  had  nearly  five  hours  of  sleep.  His 
mother  poured  his  coffee  and  he  began  eating  his 
breakfast. 

"What's  the  matter,  Bess?"  he  asked,  seizing  the 
paper  his  father  had  laid  aside,  and  glancing  at  it  in 
a  man's  ability  to  read  and  converse  with  women  at 
the  same  time. 

"Why,  she  threatens  to  go  to  the  jail,"  Mrs.  Ward 
hastened  to  reply,  in  her  eagerness  for  a  partizan  in  her 
cause.  "And  her  father  and  Mr.  Modderwell  and  Mr. 
Eades  have  all  advised  her  that  it  would  be  improper 
— to  say  nothing  of  my  own  wishes  in  the  matter." 

Dick,  to  his  mother's  disappointment,  only  laughed. 

"What  do  you  want  to  go  there  for  ?  Some  of  your 
friends  been  run  in  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  Elizabeth  calmly. 

"That's  too  bad !  Why  don't  you  have  Eades  let  'em 
out, — ^you  certainly  have  a  swell  pull  with  him." 

"You  have  just  had  Mr.  Eades's  opinion  from 
mama." 

"Who  is  your  friend?" 

"Gusta." 


426   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

Dick's  face  was  suddenly  swept  with  scarlet,  and  he 
started — looked  up,  then  hastily  raised  his  coffee-cup, 
drained  its  last  drop,  flung  his  napkin  on  his  plate,  and 
said : 

"Oh,  that  girl  that  used  to  work  for  us?*' 

"Yes." 

"Well,  mother's  right." 

Mrs.  Ward  looked  her  gratitude. 

"Of  course,  you  can't  go." 
I  can  t  r 

He  had  risen  from  the  table,  and  Elizabeth's  tone 
impressed  him. 

"Look  here,"  he  said  peremptorily.  "You  just  can't 
go  there,  that's  all  there  is  about  it !" 

"Why  not?" 

"Because  you  can't.  It  wouldn't  do,  it  wouldn't  be 
the  thing ;  you  ought  to  know  that." 

"But  why?"  Elizabeth  persisted.  "I  want  a  rea- 
son." 

"You  don't  mean  to  say  you  seriously  consider  it?" 
asked  Dick  in  real  alarm. 

"Yes,  I  do." 

Dick  suddenly  grew  excited,  his  eyes  flamed,  and  he 
was  very  red. 

"Look  here,  Bess,"  he  said.  "You  just  can't,  that's 
all." 

"Can't  I?"  she  said,  and  she  gave  a  little  laugh.  It 
was  not  her  usual  pleasant  laugh. 

"No,  you  can't."  He  spoke  more  than  insistently, 
he  spoke  angrily.  He  snatched  out  his  thin  gold  watch 
and  glanced  at  it.  "I've  not  got  time  to  discuss  this 
thing.  You  just  can't  go — ^that's  all  there  is  to  it." 

Elizabeth  rose  from  the  table  calmly,  went  out  of 


;  THE  TURN   OF  THE  BALANCE      427 

the  room,  and  Dick,  after  a  hesitant  moment,  ran  after 
her. 

"Bess!   Bess!" 

She  stopped. 

"See  here,  Bess,  you  must  not  go  there  to  see  that 
girl.  I'm  surprised!  She  isn't  the  sort,  you  under- 
stand !  You  don't  know  what  you're  doing.  Now  look 
here — wait  a  minute!"  He  caught  her  by  the  arm. 
*T  tell  you  it's  not  the  thing,  you  mustn't !" 

He  was  quite  beside  himself. 

"You  seem  greatly  excited,"  she  said. 

He  made  a  great  effort,  controlled  himself,  and,  still 
holding  her,  began  to  plead. 

"Please  don't  go,  Bess !"  he  said.    "Please  don't !" 

"But  why — why?"  she  insisted. 

"Because  I  say  so." 

"Humph!" 

"Because  I  ask  it.  Please  don't ;  do  it  for  me,  this 
once.    You'll  be  sorry  if  you  do.    Please  don't  go !" 

His  eyes  were  full  of  the  plea  he  was  incoherently 
stammering.    He  was  greatly  moved,  greatly  agitated. 

"Why,  Dick,"  she  said,  "what  is  the  matter  with 
you  ?  You  seem  to  take  this  trifle  very  much  to  heart. 
You  seem  to  have  some  special  interest,  some  deep 
reason.  I  wish  you'd  tell  me  what  it  is.  Why  shouldn't 
I  go  to  see  poor  Gusta  ?  She's  in  trouble — she  was  al- 
ways good  to  me." 

There  was  a  sudden  strange  wild  expression  in  his 
face,  his  lips  were  slightly  parted.  The  moments  were 
flying,  and  he  must  be  off. 

"Oh,  Bess,"  he  said,  "for  God's  sake,  don't  go!" 

He  implored  her  in  his  look,  then  snatching  out  his 
watch  ran  to  the  hall,  seized  his  hat  and  top-coat,  and 


42S      THE  TURN,  OF  THE  BALANCE 

went  out,  flinging  on  his  coat  as  he  ran,  and  leaving 
the  door  flying  wide  behind  him.  Elizabeth  stood  look- 
ing after  him.  When  she  turned,  her  mother  was  in 
the  room. 

"What  can  be  the  matter  with  Dick  ?"  said  Elizabeth. 
*'I  never  saw  him  so  excited  before.  He  seemed — " 
She  paused,  and  bit  her  lip. 

"Well,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Ward  calmly,  "you  see 
now,  I  hope,  just  how  the  world  regards  such  a  wild 
action.  It  was  his  love  and  respect  for  his  sister,  of 
course." 


XI 


"No,  don't  say  anything  more.  I've  thought  it  all 
out;  my  duty's  clear  now,  I  must  go."  Elizabeth  laid 
her  hand  on  her  father's  shoulder,  and  though  he 
turned  from  the  great  desk  at  which  he  sat  in  his  pri- 
vate office,  he  hesitated.    "Come  on." 

"That  conscience  of  yours,  Bess — "  he  began,  draw- 
ing down  the  lid  of  his  desk. 

"Yes,  I  know,  but  I  can't  help  it." 

"How  did  you  decide  at  last  to  go  ?"  asked  Ward,  as 
they  walked  rapidly  along  in  the  crowded  street. 

"Well,  it  tortured  me — I  couldn't  decide.  It  seemed 
so  difficult, — every  one — mama,  our  dear  Modderwell, 
Mr.  Eades,  Dick — he  nearly  lost  his  reason,  and  he  did 
lose  his  temper — thought  it  impossible.  But  at  last  I 
decided — " 

"Yes?" 

"—just  to  go." 

Elizabeth  gave  a  little  laugh  at  this  not  very  illu- 
minating explanation. 

"I  didn't  know  what  the  proprieties  were,"  she  went 
on.  "Our  little  code  had  not  provided  rules — what  to 
wear,  the  chaperonage,  and  all  that,  you  know.  And 
then," — she  abandoned  her  irony, — "I  thought  of  you." 

"As  a  last  resort,  eh?"  said  Ward,  looking  fondly 
into  her  face,  flushing  behind  her  veil  in  the  keen  No- 
vember air.  She  drew  close  to  him,  put  her  hand  on 
his  arm. 

429 


430  THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "and  as  a  first  resort,  as  a  constant, 
never-failing  resort." 

She  gave  his  arm  a  Httle  squeeze,  and  he  pressed  her 
hand  to  his  side  in  silence. 

"Do  you  know  where  it  is?"  Elizabeth  asked  pres- 
ently. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  was  there  once." 

"When?" 

"When  that  boy  of  mine  was  arrested — Graves." 

"Yes,  I  remember." 

"I  wonder,"  he  said  after  a  pause,  and  he  paused 
again  at  the  question  he  seemed  to  fear — "whatever 
became  of  him !" 

She  had  never  told  him  of  that  day  at  the  charity 
bureau;  she  wondered  if  she  should  do  so  now,  but 
she  heard  him  sigh,  and  she  let  it  pass. 

"Yes,"  he  went  on  as  if  she  had  been  privy  to  his 
rapid  train  of  thought,  "I  suppose  such  things  must 
be ;  something  must  be  done  with  them,  of  course.  I 
hope  I  did  right." 

At  the  Central  Station  they  encountered  a  young  po- 
liceman, who,  when  he  saw  Ward,  evidently  recognized 
him  as  a  man  of  affairs,  for  he  came  forward  with 
flattering  alacrity,  touching  his  helmet  in  the  respect 
which  authority  always  has  ready  for  the  rich,  as  per- 
haps the  real  source  of  its  privilege  and  its  strength. 
The  young  policeman,  with  a  smile  on  his  pleasant 
Irish  face,  took  Ward  and  Elizabeth  in  charge. 

"I'll  take  yez  to  the  front  office,"  he  said,  "and  let 
yez  speak  to  the  inspector  himself." 

When  McFee  understood  who  Ward  was,  he  camQ 
out  instantly,  with  an  unofficial  readiness  to  make  a 
difficult  experience  easy  for  them;  he  implied  an  in- 


THE   TURN   OF   THE   BALANCE      431 

slant  and  delicate  recognition  of  the  patronage  he  saw, 
or  thought  it  proper  to  see,  in  this  visit,  and  he  even 
expressed  a  sympathy  for  Gusta  herself. 

"Fm  glad  you  came,  Mr.  Ward,"  he  said.  "We  had 
to  hold  the  poor  girl,  of  course,  for  a  few  days,  until 
we  could  finish  our  investigation  of  the  case.  Will  you 
go  up — or  shall  I  have  her  brought  down  ?" 

"Oh,  we'll  go  up,"  said  Ward,  wondering  where  that 
was,  and  discovering  suddenly  in  himself  the  usual 
morbid  desire  to  look  at  the  inmates  of  a  prison.  The 
sergeant  detailed  to  conduct  them  led  them  up  two 
broad  flights  of  stairs,  and  down  a  long  hall,  where, 
at  his  step,  a  matron  appeared,  with  a  bunch  of  keys 
hanging  at  her  white  apron.  Elizabeth  went  with  none 
of  the  sensations  she  had  expected.  She  had  been  sur- 
prised to  find  the  police  station  a  quiet  place,  and  the 
policemen  themselves  had  been  very  polite,  obliging 
and  disinterested.  But  when  the  matron  unlocked  one 
of  the  doors,  and  stood  aside,  Elizabeth  felt  her  breast 
flutter  with  fear. 

The  sergeant  stood  in  the  hall,  silent  and  uncon- 
cerned, and  when  the  matron  asked  him  if  he  would  be 
present  at  the  interview  he  shook  his  head  in  a  way 
that  indicated  the  occasion  as  one  of  those  when  rules 
and  regulations  may  be  suspended.  Ward,  though  he 
would  have  liked  to  go  in,  elected  to  remain  outside 
with  the  sergeant,  and  as  he  did  this  he  smiled  reas- 
suringly at  Elizabeth,  just  then  hesitating  on  the 
threshold. 

"Oh,  just  step  right  in,"  said  the  matron,  standing 
politely  aside.  And  Elizabeth  drew  a  deep  breath  and 
took  the  step. 

She  entered  a  small  vestibule  formed  of  high  parti- 


432   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

tions  of  flanged  boards  that  were  painted  drab ;  and  she 
waited  another  moment,  with  its  gathering  anxiety  and 
apprehension,  for  the  matron  to  unlock  a  second  door. 
The  door  opened  with  a  whine  and  there,  at  the  other 
end  of  the  room  in  the  morning  light  that  struggled 
through  the  dirty  glass  of  the  grated  window,  she  saw 
Gusta.  The  girl  sat  on  a  common  wooden  chair  that 
had  once  been  yellow,  her  hat  on,  her  hands  gloved 
and  folded  in  her  lap,  as  if  in  another  instant  she  were 
to  leave  the  room  she  somehow  had  an  air  of  refusing 
to  identify  herself  with. 

"She's  sat  that  way  ever  since  she  came,"  the  matron 
whispered.  "She  hasn't  slep'  a  wink,  nor  e't  a  mouth- 
ful." 

Elizabeth's  glance  swept  the  room  which  was  Gusta's 
prison,  its  walls  lined  higher  than  her  head  with  sheet- 
iron;  on  one  side  a  narrow  cot,  frowsy,  filthy,  that 
looked  as  if  it  were  never  made,  though  the  dirty  pillow 
told  how  many  persons  had  slept  in  it — or  tried  to  sleep 
in  it.  There  was  a  wooden  table,  with  a  battered  tin 
cup,  a  few  crusts  and  crumbs  of  rye  bread,  and  cock- 
roaches that  raced  energetically  about,  pausing  now 
and  then  to  wave  their  inquisitive  antennae,  and,  be- 
sides, a  cheap,  small  edition  of  the  Bible,  adding  with 
a  kind  of  brutal  mockery  the  final  touch  of  squalor  to 
the  room. 

Gusta  moved,  looked  up,  made  sure,  and  then  sud- 
denly rose  and  came  toward  her. 

"I  knew  you'd  come.  Miss  Elizabeth,"  the  girl  said, 
with  a  relief  that  compromised  the  certainty  she  had 
just  expressed. 

"I  came  as  soon  as  I  could,  Gusta,"  said  Elizabeth, 
with  an  amused  conjecture  as  to  what  Gusta  might 


<«  She's  sat  that  way  ever  since  she  came"         Page  4J2 


>^     OF   THE 

UNIVERSITY 

OF 


THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE      433 

think  had  the  girl  known  what  difficulties  she  had  Had 
in  getting  there  at  all. 

"Yes,"  said  Gusta,  "thank  you,  I—" 

She  blushed  to  her  throat.  They  stood  there  in  the 
middle  of  that  common  prison ;  a  sudden  constraint  lay 
on  them.  Elizabeth,  conscious  of  the  difficulty  of  the 
whole  situation,  and  with  a  little  palpitating  fear  at  be- 
ing in  a  prison  at  all — a  haunting  apprehension  of 
some  mistake,  some  oversight,  some  sudden  slip  or  slid- 
ing of  a  bolt — did  not  know  what  to  say  to  Gusta  now 
that  she  was  there.  She  felt  helpless,  there  was  not 
even  a  chair  to  sit  in;  she  shuddered  at  the  thought 
of  contact  with  any  of  the  mean  articles  of  furniture, 
I  and  stood  ripfidly  in  the  middle  of  the  room.  She  looked 
at  Gusta  osely ;  already,  of  course,  with  her  feminine 
instinc  ,  :i-  '  "^.d  .aken  in  Gusta's  dress — the  clothes 
that  she  instantly  recognized  as  being  better  than  Gusta 
had  ever  before  worn — a  hat  heavy  with  plumes,  a  tan 
coat,  long  and  of  that  extreme  mode  which  foretold  1tts 
early  passing  from  the  fashion,  the  high-heeled  boots. 
Her  coat  was  open  and  revealed  a  thin  bodice  with  a 
lace  yoke,  and  a  chain  of  some  sort.  An  odor  of  per- 
fume enveloped  her.  The  whole  costume  was  distaste- 
ful to  Ehzabeth,  it  was  something  too  much',  and  had 
an  indefinable  quality  of  tawdriness  that  was  hard  to 
confirm,  until  she  saw  in  it,  somehow,  the  first  signs 
of  moral  disintegration.  And  this  showed  in  Gusta's 
face,  fuller — as  was  her  whole  figure — than  Elizabeth 
remembered  it,  and  in  a  certain  coarseness  of  expres- 
sion that  had  scarcely  as  yet  gone  the  length  of  fixing 
itself  in  lines.  Elizabeth  felt  something  that  she  re- 
coiled from,  and  her  attitude  stiffened  imperceptibly. 
But  not  imperceptibly  to  Gusta,  who  was  a  woman, 


434   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

too,  and  had  an  instant  sense  of  the  woman  in  Eliza- 
beth shrinking  from  what  the  woman  in  her  no  longer 
had  to  protect  itself  with,  and  she  felt  the  woman's 
rush  of  anger  and  rebellion  in  such  a  relation.  But 
then,  she  softeried,  and  looked  up  with  big  tears.  She 
had  a  sudden  yearning  to  fling  herself  on  Elizabeth's 
breast,  but  leave  was  wanting,  and  then,  almost  des- 
perately, for  she  must  assert  her  sisterhood,  must 
touch  and  cling  to  her,  she  seized  Elizabeth's  hand  and 
held  it. 

"Oh,  Miss  Elizabeth,"  she  said,  "I  oughtn't  to  'av' 
sent  for  you.  I  know  I  had  no  right ;  but  you  was  al- 
ways good  to  me,  and  I  had  no  one.  I've  done  nothing. 
I've  done  nothing,  honest,  honest,  Miss  Elizabeth, 
I've  done  nothing.  I  don't  know  what  I'm  here  for  at 
all ;  they  won't  tell  me.  And  Archie,  too,  it  must  have 
something  to  do  with  him,  but  he's  innocent,  too.  He 
hasn't  done  nothing  either.  Won't  you  believe  me? 
Oh,  say  you  will !" 

She  still  clung  to  Elizabeth's  hand,  and  now  she 
pressed  it  in  both  her  own,  and  raised  it,  and  came 
closer,  and  looked  into  Elizabeth's  face. 

"Say  you  believe  me!"  she  insisted,  and  Elizabeth, 
half  in  fear,  as  though  to  pacify  a  maniac,  nodded. 

"Of  course,  of  course,  Gusta." 

"You  mean  it?" 

"Surely  I  do." 

"And  you  know  Fm  just  as  good  as  I  ever  was,  don't 
you?" 

"Why— of  course,  I  do,  Gusta."  It  is  so  hard  to 
lie;  the  truth,  in  its  divine  persistence,  springs  so  in- 
cautiously to  the  eyes  before  it  can  be  checked  at  the 
lips. 


THE  TURN   OF  THE  BALANCE      ^35 

The  tears  dried  suddenly  in  Gusta's  blue  eyes.  She 
spoke  fiercely. 

"You  don't  mean  it !  No,  you  don't  mean  it !  I  see 
you  don't — you  needn't  say  you  do !  Oh,  you  needn't 
say  you  do !" 

She  squeezed  Elizabeth's  hand  almost  maliciously 
and  Elizabeth  winced  with  pain. 

"You — you  don't  know !"  Gusta  went  on.  And  then 
she  hesitated,  seemed  to  deliberate  on  the  verge  of  a 
certain  desperation,  to  pause  for  an  instant  before  a 
temptation  to  which  she  longed  to  yield. 

"I  could  tell  you  something,"  she  said  significantly. 

A  wonder  gathered  in  Elizabeth's  eyes.  Her  heart 
was  beating  rapidly,  she  could  feel  it  throbbing. 

"Do  you  know  why  I  sent  for  you — what  I  had  to 
tell  you?" 

She  was  looking  directly  in  Elizabeth's  eyes;  the 
faces  of  both  girls  became  pale.  And  Elizabeth  groped 
in  her  startled  mind  for  some  clear  recognition,  some 
postulation  of  a  fact,  a  horrible,  blasting  certitude  that 
was  beginning  to  formulate  itself,  a  certitude  that 
would  have  swept  away  in  an  instant  all  those  formal 
barriers  that  had  stood  in  the  way  of  her  coming  to 
this  haggard  prison.  She  shuddered,  and  closed  her 
mind,  as  she  closed  her  eyes  just  then,  to  shut  out  the 
look  in  the  eyes  of  this  imprisoned  girl. 

But  the  moment  was  too  tense  to  last.  Some  mercy 
was  in  the  breast  of  the  girl  to  whom  life  had  shown 
so  little  mercy.  Voluntarily,  she  released  Elizabeth, 
and  put  up  her  hands  to  her  face,  and  shook  with  sobs. 

"Don't,  don't,  Gusta,"  Elizabeth  pleaded,  "don't  cry, 
dear." 

The  endearment  made  Gusta  cry  the  harder.    And 


436   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

then  Elizabeth,  who  had  shrunk  from  her  and  from 
everything  in  the  room,  put  her  arms  about  her,  and 
supported  her,  and  patted  her  shoulder  and  repeated: 

"There,  dear,  there,  you  mustn't  cry." 

And  then  presently : 

"Tell  me  what  I  can  do  to  help  you.  I  want  to  help 
you." 

Gusta  sobbed  a  moment  longer. 

''Nothing,  there  is  nothing,"  she  said.  "I  just  want- 
ed you.    I  wanted  some  one — " 

"Yes,  I  understand,"  said  Elizabeth.  She  did  un- 
derstand many  things  now  that  made  life  clearer,  if 
sadder. 

"I  wanted  you  to  tell  my  poor  old  mother,"  said 
Gusta.    "That's  all—that's  what  I  had  to  tell  you." 

She  said  it  so  unconvincingly,  and  looked  up  sud- 
denly with  a  wan  smile  that  begged  forgiveness,  and 
then  Elizabeth  did  what  a  while  before  would  have 
been  impossible — she  kissed  the  girl's  cheek.  And 
Gusta  cuddled  close  to  her  in  a  peace  that  almost 
purred,  and  was  contented. 

Gusta  was  held  for  a  week ;  then  released. 


XII 


Archie  was  looking  well  that  Monday  morning  in 
January  on  which  his  trial  was  to  begin.  He  had 
slept  soundly  in  his  canvas  hammock;  not  even  the 
whimpering  of  Reinhart,  the  young  sneak  thief  whom 
every  one  in  the  jail  detested,  nor  the  strange  noises 
and  startled  outcries  he  made  in  his  sleep — when  he 
did  sleep — ^had  disturbed  him.  The  night  before,  Utter 
had  allowed  Archie  a  bath,  though  he  had  broken  a 
rule  in  doing  so,  and  that  morning  Archie  had  bor- 
rowed a  whisk  from  Utter,  brushed  his  old  clothes  in- 
dustriously, and  then  he  had  put  on  the  underwear  his 
mother  had  washed  and  patched  and  mended,  and  the 
shirt  of  blue  and  white  stripes  Marriott  had  provided. 
iThen  with  scrupulous  care  he  set  his  cell  in  order,  ar- 
ranged his  few  things  on  the  little  table — ^the  deck  of 
cards,  the  yellow-covered  dog's-eared  novel  and  a 
broken  comb.  Beside  these,  lay  his  fresh  collar  and 
his  beloved  blue  cravat  with  the  white  polka  dots ;  his 
coat  and  waistcoat  hung  over  the  back  of  his  chair. 
At  seven  o'clock  Willie  Kirkpatrick,  alias  "Toughie," 
a  boy  who,  after  two  terms  in  the  Reform  School,  was 
now  going  to  the  Intermediate  Prison,  had  brought  in 
the  bread  and  coffee.  At  eight  o'clock  Archie  was 
turned  into  the  corridor,  and  with  him  Blanco,  the 
bigamist,  whose  two  young  wives  were  being  held  as 
witnesses  in  the  women's  quarter.  Blanco  was  a  bar- 
ber, and  he  made  himself  useful  by  shaving  the  other 

437 


438   THE  TURK  OF  THE  BALANCE 

prisoners.  This  morning,  with  scissors,  razor,  lather- 
brush  and  cup,  he  took  especial  pains  with  Archie. 
Now  and  then  he  paused,  cocked  his  little  head  with  its 
plume  of  black  hair,  and  surveyed  his  handiwork  with 
honest  pride. 

"I'll  fix  you  up  swell,  Dutch,  so's  they'll  have  to  ac- 
quit you." 

From  the  cells  came  laughter.  The  prisoners  began 
to  josh  Blanco — it  was  one  of  their  few  pastimes. 

"Don't  stand  for  one  of  them  gilly  hair-cuts,  Dutch," 
cried  Billy  Whee,  a  porch-climber.  "It'll  be  a  fritzer, 
sure." 

"Yes,  he'll  make  your  knob  look  like  a  mop." 

"When  I  was  doing  my  bit  at  the  Pork  Dump,"  be- 
gan O'Grady,  in  the  tone  that  portends  a  story;  the 
cell  doors  began  to  rattle. 

"Cheese  it,"  cried  the  voices.  They  had  grown 
tired  of  O'Grady's  boasting. 

After  Archie  had  returned  to  his  cell,  an  English 
thief  whom  they  called  the  Duke,  began  to  sing  in  a 
clear  tenor  voice,  to  the  tune  of  Dixie: 


"I  wish  there  were  no  prisons, 
I  do,  I  does — 'cause  why? — 
This  old  treadmill  makes  me  feel  ill, 
I  only  pinch  my  belly  for  to  fill, 
,Wi'  me  'ands, 
Wi'  me  dukes, 
Wi'  me  clawrs, 
Me  mud  hooks." 


Archie  scowled;  he  wished,  for  once,  the  Duke 
would  keep  still.  He  was  trying  to  think,  trying  to 
assure  himself  that  his  trial  would  turn  out  well.  Day 
after  day,  Marriott  had  come,  and  for  hours  he  and 


THE  TURN   OF  THE   BALANCE      439 

Archie  had  sat  in  the  long  gray  corridor,  in  the  dry 
atmosphere  of  the  overheated  jail,  conferring  in  whis- 
pers, because  Archie  knew  Danner  was  Hstening  at 
the  peep-hole  in  the  wall.  Marriott  was  perplexed; 
how  could  he  get  Archie's  true  story  before  the  jury? 
He  had  even  consulted  Elizabeth,  told  her  the  story. 

"Oh,  horrible!"  she  exclaimed.  "But  surely,  you 
can  tell  the  jury — surely  they  will  sympathize." 

He  had  shaken  his  head. 

"Why  not?" 

"Because,"  said  Marriott,  "the  rules  of  evidence  are 
designed  to  keep  out  the  truth." 

"But  can't  Archie  tell  it?" 

"I  don't  dare  to  let  him  take  the  stand." 

"Why?" 

"Because  he'll  be  convicted  if  he  does." 

"And  if  he  doesn't?" 

"The  same  result — he'll  be  convicted.  He's  con- 
victed now — the  mob  has  already  done  that;  the  trial 
is  only  a  conventional  formality." 

"What  mob?" 

"The  newspapers,  the  preachers,  the  great  moral, 
respectable  mob  that  holds  a  man  guilty  until  he  proves 
himself  innocent,  and,  if  he  asserts  his  innocence,  looks 
even  on  that  as  a  proof  of  his  guilt." 

Eades  had  announced  that  Archie  would  be  tried 
for  the  murder  of  Kouka,  and  Elizabeth  had  been  im- 
pressed. 

"Wasn't  that  rather  fine  in  him  ?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,"  said  Marriott,  "and  very  clever," 

"Clever?" 

"He  means  to  try  him  for  the  murder  of  Kouka,  and 
convict  him  of  the  murder  of  Margaret  Flanagan." 


440      THE  TURN,  OK  THE   BALANCE'  ! 

This  morning  tKen,  Archie  awaited  the  hour  of  his 
trial.  The  night  before  he  had  played  solitaire,  trying 
to  read  his  fate  in  the  fall  of  the  fickle  cards.  The 
first  game  he  had  lost;  then  he  decided  that  he  was 
entitled  to  two  out  of  three  chances.  He  played 
again,  and  lost.  Then  he  decided  to  play  another — ^best 
three  out  of  five — he  might  win  the  other  two.  He 
played  and  won  the  third  game.  He  lost  the  fourth. 
And  now  he  stood  and  waited.  At  half-past  eight  he 
drew  on  his  waistcoat  and  his  coat,  giving  them  a  final 
brushing.    The  Duke  was  singing  again : 


"An*  I  wish  there  were  no  bobbies, 

I  do,  I  does — 'cause  why? — 
This  oakum  pickin'  gives  me  such  a  lickin'. 
But  still  I  likes  to  do  a  bit  o'  nickin', 
.Wi'  me  'ands, 
Wi'  me  dukes, 
Wi'  me  clawrs. 
Me  mud  hooks." 


The  last  words  of  the  song  were  punctuated  by  the 
clanging  of  the  bolts. 

*'Koerner !"  called  out  Banner's  voice. 

He  was  throwing  the  locks  of  Archie's  cell  from  the 
big  steel  box  by  the  door,  Archie  sprang  to  his  feet, 
gave  his  cravat  a  final  touch,  and  adjusted  his  coat. 
The  steel  door  went  gliding  back  in  its  hard  grooves. 
He  stepped  out,  thence  through  the  other  door,  and 
there  Danner  waited.  Archie  held  out  his  right  hand, 
Danner  slipped  on  the  handcuff  and  its  spring  clicked. 
As  they  went  out,  cries  came  from  the  cells. 

"So  long,  Archie !    Good  luck  to  ye !"  | 

"Good  luck !"  came  the  chorus. 

Archie,  standing  in  the  strange  light  outside  the 


THE  TURN  DF:  THE   BALANCE      441 

prison,  seemed  to  take  on  a  changed  aspect.  He  had 
grown  fat  during  his  two  months'  idleness  in  jail ;  his 
skin  was  white  and  soft.  Now  in  the  gray  light  of  the 
January  morning,  his  face  had  lost  the  ruddy  glow 
Blanco's  shaving  had  imparted  to  it,  and  was  pale. 
The  snow  lay  on  the  ground,  the  air  was  cold  and 
raw,  Archie  gasped  in  the  surprise  his  lungs  felt  in 
this  atmosphere,  startling  in  its  cold  and  freshness 
after  the  hot  air  of  the  steam-heated  jail.  He  filled 
his  lungs  with  the  air  and  blew  it  out  again  in  frost. 
A  shudder  ran  through  him.  Danner  was  jovial 
for  once. 

"Fine  day,"  he  said. 

Archie  did  not  reply.  He  hated  Danner  more  than 
he  hated  most  people,  and  he  hated  every  one,  almost 
— save  Marriott  and  Gusta,  and  his  father  and  mother 
and  the  kids,  and  Elizabeth,  who,  as  Marriott  had  re- 
ported to  him,  wished  him  well.  The  air  and  the 
light  gave  him  pain — he  shrank  from  them;  he  had 
not  been  outdoors  since  that  day,  a  month  before, 
when  he  had  been  taken  over  with  Curly  to  be  ar- 
raigned. He  looked  on  the  world  again,  the  world 
that  was  so  strange  and  new.  Once  more  there  swept 
over  him  that  queer  sensation  that  always  came  as 
he  stepped  out  of  prison,  the  sensation  of  fear,  of  un- 
certainty, a  doubt  of  reality,  the  blur  before  his  eyes. 
The  streets  were  deserted,  the  houses  still.  The  snow 
crunched  frigidly  under  his  heels.  The  handcuff 
chain  clicked  in  the  frost.  A  wagon  turned  the  corner ; 
the  driver  walked  beside  his  steaming  horses  and 
flapped  his  arms  about  his  shoulders;  the  wheels 
whined  on  the  snow.  Archie  looked  at  the  man ;  it  was 
strange,  he  felt,  that  a  man  should  be  free  to  walk  the 
streets  and  flap  his  arms  that  way. 


XIII 

The  court-room  was  already  crowded  and  buzzed 
with  a  pleasant  yet  excited  hum  of  voices.  Mrs. 
Koerner,  the  first  to  appear  that  morning,  had  been 
given  a  seat  directly  in  front  of  the  bailiff's  elevated 
desk,  where  she  was  to  sit,  a  conspicuous  figure  of  sor- 
row through  all  the  trial.  The  twenty-four  aged  men  of 
the  special  venire  were  seated  inside  the  bar ;  the  report- 
ers were  at  their  table;  two  policemen,  wearing  their 
heavy  overcoats  as  if  they  were  no  discomfort  at  all, 
were  gossiping  together ;  Giles,  the  court  stenographer, 
grown  old  in  automatic  service,  wandered  about  in  a 
thin  coat  with  ragged  sleeves,  its  shoulders  powdered 
by  dandruff.  The  life  that  for  so  many  years  had  been 
unfolded  to  him  in  a  series  of  dramatic  tableaux  could 
have  interested  him  but  little;  he  seemed,  indeed,  to 
have  reduced  it  to  mere  symbols — dashes,  pothooks, 
points  and  outlines.  At  one  of  the  trial  tables  sat  Mar- 
riott. He  was  nervous,  not  having  slept  well  the  night 
before.  At  the  table  with  him  was  Pennell,  the  young 
lawyer  with  the  gift  of  the  gab,  who  had  been  so  un- 
fortunate as  to  win  the  oratorical  prize  in  college. 
Pennell,  at  the  last  moment,  somehow — Marriott  never 
knew  exactly  how — had  insinuated  himself  into  the 
case.  He  explained  his  appearance  by  saying,  in  his 
grand,  mysterious  way,  that  he  had  been  engaged  by 
"certain  influential  friends"  of  Archie's,  who  preferred 
to  remain  unknown.    Archie,  who  did  not  know  that 

442 


THE  TURN   OF   THE   BALANCE      443 

he  had  any  Influential  friends,  could  not  explain  Pen- 
nell's  presence,  but,  feeling  that  the  more  lawyers  he 
had  the  better,  he  was  secretly  glad,  and  Marriott, 
who  bowed  before  the  whole  situation  in  a  kind  of  help- 
less fatalism,  made  no  objection. 

But  suddenly  a  change  occurred.  The  atmosphere 
became  electric.  Men  started  up,  their  eyes  glistened, 
they  leaned  forward,  a  low  murmur  arose ;  the  old 
bailiff  started  violently,  smote  his  marble  slab  with  his 
gavel,  and  Mark  Bentley,  very  red  in  the  face,  was 
seen  striding  toward  the  door,  waving  his  authorita- 
tive hand  and  calling : 

"Back  there !    Get  back,  I  tell  you !" 

Archie  had  just  been  brought  in.  Banner  led  him 
to  the  trial  table,  and  he  took  his  seat,  hid  his  mana- 
cled hands,  and  sat  motionless,  gazing  straight  before 
him,  unconsciously  obeying  some  long-hidden,  obscure 
instinct  of  the  hunted.  But  Marriott's  hand  had  found 
his. 

"How  did  you  sleep  last  night?" 

"Pretty  well,"  said  Archie  as  politely  as  possible,  the 
occasion  seeming  to  require  those  conventionalities  of 
which  he  was  so  very  uncertain. 

"Well,  we'll  soon  be  at  it  now,"  said  Marriott,  think- 
ing, however,  of  his  own  wretched  night. 

Arcliie  watched  Marriott  tumble  the  papers  out  of 
his  green  bag  and  arrange  his  briefs  and  memoranda ; 
he  did  not  take  his  eyes  from  the  green  bag.  When- 
ever he  did,  they  met  other  eyes  that  looked  at  him 
with  an  expression  that  combined  all  the  lower,  brutish 
impulses — curiosity,  fear  and  hate. 

At  half-past  nine  Glassford,  having  finished  his 
cigar,  entered  the  court-room.     Directly  behind  him 


444  THE  TURN  OE  THE  BALANCE 

came  Eades.  THe  bailiff,  who  if  he  had  been  drows- 
ing again,  had  been  drowsing  as  always,  with  one  eye 
on  Glassford,  now  got  to  his  feet,  and,  as  Glassford  as- 
cended the  bench,  struck  the  marble  slab  with  the 
gavel  and  in  the  instant  stillness,  repeated  his  worn 
formula. 

*The  case  of  the  State  versus  Archie  Koerner,"  said 
Glassford,  reading  from  his  docket.  He  glanced  over 
his  gold  glasses  at  Marriott. 

"Are  you  ready  for  trial,  Mr.  Marriott  ?" 

"We  are  ready,  your  Honor." 

Danner  unlocked  the  handcuffs  from  Archie's 
wrists.  The  reporters  began  writing  feverishly;  al- 
ready messenger  boys  were  coming  and  going.  Gard, 
the  clerk,  was  calling  the  roll  of  the  venire-men,  and 
when  he  had  done,  it  was  time  for  the  lawyers  to  begin 
examining  them ;  but  before  this  could  be  done,  it  was 
necessary  that  a  formula  be  repeated  to  them,  and 
Gard  told  them  to  stand  up.  As  soon  as  they  could 
comprehend  his  meaning,  they  got  to  their  feet  with 
their  various  difficulties,  and  Gard  proceeded : 

"  *You  and  each  of  you  do  solemnly  swear' — ^hold  up 
your  right  hands — 'that  the  answers  you  are  about  to 
give  will  be  the  truth,  the  whole  truth,  and  nothing 
but  the  truth,  s'elp  you  God.' " 

And  then,  in  a  lower  voice,  as  if  the  real  business 
were  now  to  begin,  he  called : 

"William  C.  McGiffert." 

An  aged  man  came  forward  leaning  on  a  crooked 
cane,  and  took  the  witness-stand.  Eades  began  his  ex- 
amination by  telling  McGiffert  about  the  death  of 
Kouka,  and,  when  he  had  finished,  asked  him  if  he  had 
ever  heard  of  it,  or  read  of  it,  or  formed  or  expressed 


THE  .TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE      i^S 

an  opinion  about  it,  if  he  were  related  to  Koerner,  or 
to  Marriott,  or  to  Pennell,  or  had  ever  employed  them, 
or  either  of  them,  as  attorney.  Then  he  asked  McGif- 
fert  if  Lamborn  or  himself  had  acted  as  his  attorney ; 
finally,  with  an  air  of  the  utmost  fairness,  as  if  he 
would  not  for  worlds  have  any  but  an  entirely  unpre- 
judiced jury,  he  appealed  to  McGiffert  to  tell  whether 
he  knew  of  any  reason  why  he  could  not  give  Koerner 
a  fair  and  impartial  trial  and  render  a  verdict  accord- 
ing to  the  law  and  the  evidence.  McGiffert  had  shaken 
his  head  hastily  at  each  one  of  Eades's  questions.  Eades 
paused  impressively,  then  asked  a  question  that  sent  a 
thrill  through  the  onlookers. 

"Mr.  McGiffert,  have  you  any  conscientious  scruples 
against  capital  punishment  ?" 

The  suggestive  possibility  affected  men  strangely; 
they  leaned  forward,  hanging  on  the  reply.  McGiffert 
shook  his  aged  head  again  as  if  it  were  a  gratuitous  re- 
flection on  his  character  to  hint  at  his  being  in  any  way 
unfit  for  this  office. 

Eades,  having  had  McGiffert  on  many  juries  and 
knowing  that  he  invariably  voted  for  conviction,  with 
a  graceful  gesture  of  his  white  hand,  waved  him,  as  it 
were,  to  Marriott. 

Marriott,  after  an  examination  he  knew  was  hope- 
less from  the  start,  found  no  cause  for  challenge ;  and 
after  Glassford,  as  if  some  deeper  possibilities  had  oc- 
curred to  his  superior  mind,  had  asked  McGiffert  about 
his  age  and  his  health,  McGiffert,  with  the  relief  of  a 
man  who  has  passed  successfully  through  an  ordeal, 
climbed  hastily  into  the  jury-box  and  retreated  to  its 
farthest  corner,  as  if  it  were  a  safe  place  from  which 
he  could  not  be  dislodged. 


446   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

One  by  one  the  venire-men  were  examined ;  several 
were  excused.  One  old  man,  although  he  protested, 
was  manifestly  deaf,  another  had  employed  Eades,  an- 
other rose  and,  hanging  over  the  desk,  whispered  to 
Glassford,  who  immediately  excused  him  because  of 
physical  disability;  finally,  by  noon,  the  panel  was  full. 

Marriott  scanned  the  twelve  bearded  men.  Viewed; 
as  a  whole,  they  seemed  well  to  typify  the  great  insti- 
tution of  the  English  law,  centuries  old ;  their  beards 
clung  to  them  like  the  gray  moss  of  a  live-oak,  hoary 
with  age.  But  these  patriarchal  beards  could  lend  little 
dignity.  The  old  men  sat  there  suggesting  the  diseases 
of  age — rheumatism,  lumbago,  palsy — death  and  decay. 
Their  faces  were  mere  masks  of  clay ;  they  were 
lacking  in  imagination,  in  humor,  in  sympathy,  in 
pity,  in  mercy,  all  the  high  human  qualities  liaving 
long  ago  died  within  them,  leaving  their  bodies  unten- 
anted. He  knew  they  were  ready  at  that  moment  to 
convict  Archie.  He  had  sixteen  peremptory  chal- 
lenges, and  as  he  reflected  that  these  would  soon  be 
exhausted  and  that  the  men  who  were  thus  excused 
would  be  replaced  by  others  just  like  them,  a  despair 
seized  him.  But  it  was  imperative  to  get  rid  of  these ; 
they  were,  for  the  most  part,  professional  jurors  who 
would  invariably  vote  for  the  state.  He  must  begin  to 
use  those  precious  peremptory  challenges  and  compel 
the  court  to  issue  special  venires ;  in  the  haste  and  con- 
fusion men  might  be  found  who  would  be  less  profes- 
sional and  more  intelligent.  In  this  •  case,  involving, 
as  it  did,  the  Flanagan  case,  he  needed  strong,  inde- 
pendent men,  whereas  Eades  required  instead  weak, 
subservient  and  stupid  men — ^men  with  crystallized 
minds,  dull,  orthodox^  inaccessible  to  ideas.    Further- 


THE  TURN   OF  THE   BALANCE      447 

more,  Marriott  recalled  that  juries  are  not  made  up  of 
twelve  men,  as  the  law  boasts,  but  of  two  or  three  men, 
or  more  often,  of  one  man  stronger  than  the  rest,  who 
dominates  his  fellows,  lays  his  masterful  will  upon 
them,  and  bends  them  to  his  wishes  and  his  prejudices. 
Perhaps,  in  some  special  venire,  quite  by  accident,  when 
the  sheriff's  deputies  began  to  scour  the  town,  there 
might  be  found  one  such  man,  who,  for  some  obscure 
reason,  would  incline  to  Archie's  side.  On  such  a 
caprice  of  fate  hung  Archie's  life. 

**Mr.  Marriott,  the  court  is  waiting,"  said  Glassford. 

"If  your  Honor  will  indulge  us  a  moment."  Then 
Marriott  whispered  to  Archie. 

"Je's,"  said  Archie.  "Looks  cheesy  to  me.  Looks  to 
me  like  a  lot  o'  rummy  blokes.  They've  got  it  all 
framed  up  now.  Them  old  hoosiers  would  cop  the 
cush  all  right."  Archie  whispered  with  the  sneering 
cynicism  of  one  who  holds  the  belief  of  the  all-power- 
ful influence  of  money.  "That  old  harp  back  there  in 
the  corner  with  the  green  benny  on,  he  looks  like  a 
bull  to  me.    Go  after  him  and  knock  him  off." 

Archie  had  indicated  quite  openly  an  aged  Irishman 
who  sat  huddled  in  a  faded  overcoat  in  the  rear  row. 
He  had  white  chin-whiskers  and  a  long,  broad,  clean- 
shaven upper  lip. 

"Mr.  McGee,"  said  Marriott,  rising,  "what  business 
are  you  in  ?" 

"Oi'm  retired,  sor." 

"Were  you  ever  on  the  police  force  ?" 

"Well,  sor,"  said  McGee  uneasily,  "Oi  wor  wance, 
sor — yes,  sor." 

He  looked  up  now  with  a  nonchalant  air, 

"How  long  were  you  on  the  force  ?" 


448   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

"Twinty-wan  years,  sor." 

Marriott  questioned  him  at  length,  finally  challenged 
him  for  cause;  Eades  objected,  they  argued,  and  Glass- 
ford  overruled  the  challenge.  Then,  having  certainly 
offended  McGee,  there  was  nothing  for  Marriott  to  do 
but  to  submit  a  peremptory  challenge. 

By  night  the  venire  was  exhausted  and  Glassford 
ordered  a  special  venire.  With  the  serving  of  the  spe- 
cial venires,  a  difference  was  noted ;  whereas  the  men 
on  the  first  venire  had  studied  how  they  should  qualify 
themselves  for  jury  service,  the  men  whom  Bentley 
and  his  deputies  now  haled  into  court,  studied  how 
they  should  disquaUfy  themselves.  They  were  all  im- 
patient of  the  senseless  tedium,  of  the  costly  interrup- 
tion, being  men  with  real  work  to  do.  They  replied 
like  experts ;  all  had  read  of  the  case,  all  had  formed 
and  expressed  opinions,  and  their  opinions  could  not 
be  shaken  by  any  evidence  that  might  be  adduced. 
Glassford  plied  them  with  metaphysical  questions; 
drew  psychological  distinctions ;  but  in  vain.  Many  of 
them  had  scruples  against  capital  punishment ;  a  score 
of  them,  fifty  of  them  swore  to  this,  to  the  delight  but 
disappointment  of  Marriott,  the  discomfiture  of  Eades, 
the  perplexity  of  Glassford,  and  the  dull  amazement 
of  the  men  in  the  jury-box,  who  had  no  conscientious 
scruples  against  anything.  Still  others  had  certificates 
of  various  kinds  exempting  them  from  jury  service, 
which  they  exhibited  with  calm  smiles  and  were  ex- 
cused. 

Marriott  eked  out  his  precious  peremptory  challenges 
for  three  days;  venire  after  venire  was  issued,  and 
Bentley  was  happy,  for  all  this  meant  fees.  The  crowd 
diminished.    The  lawyers  grew  weary  and  no  longer 


THE  TURN   OF  THE   BALANCE      449 

exerted  themselves  to  say  clever  things.  The  sky,' 
which  had  sparkled  a  cold,  frosty  blue  for  days,  was 
overcast  with  gray  clouds,  the  atmosphere  was  satu- 
rated with  a  chill  and  penetrating  moisture.  This  at- 
mosphere affected  men  strangely.  Eades  and  Marriott 
had  a  dispute,  Danner  ordered  Archie  to  sit  erect/ 
Glassford  sharply  rebuked  two  citizens  who  did  not 
believe  in  capital  punishment  for  their  lack  of  a  sense 
of  civic  duty;  then  he  whirled  about  in  his  chair  and 
exclaimed  angrily : 

"We'll  not  adjourn  to-night  until  we  Have  a  jury !" 

Marriott  had  one  peremptory  challenge  left,  and 
eleven  men  had  been  accepted.  It  was  now  a  matter 
of  luck. 

"George  Holden,"  called  the  clerk. 

A  broad-shouldered  man  of  medium  height  came 
promptly  forward,  took  the  oath,  leaned  back  in  his 
chair,  crossed  his  legs,  folded  his  strong  hands  in  his 
lap,  and  raised  a  pair  of  deep  blue  eyes  to  Eades.  As 
he  sat  there,  something  in  the  poise  of  his  fine  head, 
with  its  thick  curly  hair,  claimed  attention;  interest 
revived ;  every  one  looked  at  him.  He  had  a  smooth- 
shaven  face  and  a  wide  white  brow,  and  the  collar  of 
his  dark  flannel  shirt  was  open,  freeing  his  strong  neck 
and  ample  throat.  Marriott  suddenly  conceived  a  lik- 
ing for  the  man. 

"What  is  your  occupation,  Mr.  Holden?"  asked 
Eades. 

"Machinist." 

He  had  read  the  newspaper  accounts  of  the  murder 
of  Kouka  and  of  the  Flanagan  tragedy,  but  he  Had  not 
formed  any  real  opinions;  he  may  have  formed  im- 
pressions, but  he  could  lay  them  aside;  he  didn't  go 


450   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

much  anyway,  he  said,  on  what  he  read  in  the  news- 
papers. 

The  formal  questions  were  put  and  answered  to 
Eades^s  satisfaction ;  then  came  the  real  question : 

"Are  you  opposed  to  capital  punishment  ?" 

"Yes,  sir,  I  am." 

"Are  your  scruples  conscientious  ones  ?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"And  not  to  be  overcome  ?" 

"They  are  not  to  be  overcome." 

Just  then  Glassford,  impatient  of  all  these  scruples 
he  was  hearing  so  much  about,  whirled  on  Holden  with 
a  scowl.  Holden  turned;  his  blue  eyes  met  those  of 
Glassford. 

"You  don't  want  to  sit  on  this  jury,  do  you?"  de- 
manded Glassford. 

"No,  sir." 

"It  would  interfere  with  your  business,  wouldn't  it  ?" 

"No,  sir." 

"It  wouldn't  ?    You  earn  good  wages,  don't  you  ?" 

"I'm  out  of  a  job  now,  sir." 

"Well,  are  your  scruples  such  that  you  can't  lay 
them  aside  long  enough  to  do  your  duty  as  a  citizen  ?" 

Holden  flushed. 

"I  can't  lay  them  aside,  no ;  but  it  doesn't  follow  that 
I  can't  do  my  duty  as  a  citizen." 

"But,"  began  Glassford  in  his  tone  of  legal  argu- 
ment, "assuming  that  the  law  as  it  is  should  be  altered, 
nevertheless,  knowing  the  law,  can  you  lay  aside  your 
private  views  and  perform  a  public  duty  by  applying 
this  law  to  a  given  state  of  facts  as  the  court  instructs 
you  ? — You  understand  me,  do  you  ?" 

"I  understand  perfectly,  sir," 


THE   TURN   OF  THE   BALANCE      451 

*'Well,  what  do  you  say?" 

*T  have  no  private  views  that  are  not  public  ones ;  I 
can't  see  any  distinction.  I  say  that  I  would  not  take 
an  oath  that  might  oblige  me  to  vote  to  kill  a  man." 

The  atmosphere  became  tense. 

"But  assuming  you  had  taken  an  oath,  would  you 
rather  break  that  oath  than  discharge  your  duty  ?" 

"I  wouldn't  take  such  an  oath." 

"Then  you  place  your  private  opinions  above  the 
law,  do  you  ?" 

"In  this  instance,  I  do.  I  don^t  believe  in  that  law, 
and  I  won't  help  enforce  it." 

"You  mean," — Glassford  was  plainly  angry — ^"that 
you  wouldn't  take  an  oath  to  enforce  a  law  you  didn't 
believe  in  ?" 

"That's  just  what  I  mean." 

Glassford  looked  an  instant  at  Holden  as  if  trying 
to  decide  what  he  had  better  do  with  him  for  these 
heresies.  Holden's  blue  eyes  were  steady;  they  re- 
turned Glassford's  gaze,  seeming  scarcely  to  wink. 
And  just  then  Eades,  fearing  the  effect  of  the  man's 
scruples  on  the  jury,  thought  best  to  relieve  the  situa- 
tion. 

"We  submit  a  challenge  for  cause,"  he  said. 

"Allowed,"  Glassford  snapped.  "We  don't  want 
such  men  as  you  on  juries." 

He  whirled  about  in  his  chair,  turned  his  back  on 
Holden,  and  as  Holden  walked  directly  from  the  court- 
room, the  eyes  of  all  followed  him,  with  a  strange 
interest  in  a  man  who  was  considered  unfit  for  jury 
service  because  he  had  principles  he  would  not  forego, 
i     "Samuel  Walker,"  called  Gard. 

An  aged,  doddering  man  tottered  to  the  chair.    He 


452   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

scarcely  spoke  in  answer  to  Eades's  questions;  when 
he  did,  it  was  in  the  weak,  quavering  voice  of  senility. 
He  had  no  occupation,  knew  none  of  the  lawyers,  had 
no  knowledge  of  the  case,  had  neither  formed  nor  ex- 
pressed opinions,  and  had  no  scruples  against  capital 
punishment. 

"You  believe  that  the  laws  should  be  executed  and 
upheld  ?"  said  Eades  in  an  insinuating  tone. 

"Heh?"  said  the  old  man,  leaning  forward  with  an 
open  palm  behind  his  hairy  ear. 

Eades  repeated  the  question  and  the  fellow  nodded. 

Marriott  turned  in  disgust  from  this  stupid,  senile 
man  who  was  qualified,  as  impatiently  as  Glassford  had 
turned  from  the  intelligent  man  who  was  disqualified. 
And  then,  just  as  Walker  was  making  for  the  jury- 
box,  Marriott  used  his  last  peremptory  challenge. 

A  moment  later  he  saw  his  mistake.  Gard  was  call- 
ing a  name  he  knew. 

"William  A.  Broadwell." 

The  short  winter  afternoon  was  closing  in.  For  half 
an  hour  shadows  had  been  stealing  wearily  through 
the  room;  the  spectators  had  become  a  blurred  mass, 
the  jurymen  lounging  in  the  box  had  grown  indistinct 
in  the  gloom.  For  some  time,  the  green  shade  of  the 
electric  lamp  on  the  clerk's  desk  had  been  glowing,  but 
now,  as  Broadwell  came  forward,  the  old  bailifiP,  shuf- 
fling across  the  floor,  suddenly  switched  on  the  elec- 
tricity, and  group  by  group,  cluster  by  cluster,  the 
bulbs  sprang  into  light,  first  in  the  ceiling,  then  on  the 
walls,  then  about  the  judge's  bench.  There  was  a 
touch  of  the  theatrical  in  it,  for  the  lights  seemed  to 
have  been  switched  on  to  illuminate  the  entrance  of  this 
important  man. 


THE   TURN   OF  THE   BALANCE      453 

He  was  sworn  and  took  the  witness-chair,  which  he 
completely  filled,  and  clasped  his  white  hands  across 
his  round  paunch  with  an  air  that  savored  of  piety 
and  unction.  The  few  gray  hairs  glistening  at  the 
sides  of  his  round  bald  head  gave  it  a  tonsured  appear- 
ance; fat  enfolded  his  skull,  rounding  at  his  temples, 
swelling  on  his  clean-shaven,  monkish  cheeks,  falling 
in  folds  like  dewlaps  over  his  linen  collar.  He  sat 
there  with  satisfaction,  breathing  heavily,  making  no 
movement,  excepting  as  to  his  thin  lips  which  he 
pursed  now  and  then  as  if  to  adjust  them  more  and 
more  perfectly  to  what  he  considered  the  proper  ex- 
pression of  impeccability.  Marriott  was  utterly  sick 
at  heart.  For  he  knew  William  A.  Broadwell,  ortho- 
dox, formal,  eminently  respectable,  a  server  on  com- 
mittees, a  deacon  with  certain  cheap  honors  of  the 
churchly  kind,  a  Pharisee  of  the  Pharisees. 

In  his  low  solemn  voice,  pursing  his  lips  nicely  after 
each  sentence  as  if  his  own  words  tasted  good  to  him, 
Broadwell  answered  Eades's  questions;  he  had  no 
opposition  to  capital  punishment,  indeed,  he  added 
quite  gratuitously,  he  believed  in  supporting  it ;  he  had 
great  veneration  for  the  law,  and — oh,  yes,  he  had 
read  accounts  of  the  murder;  read  them  merely  be- 
cause he  esteemed  it  a  citizen's  duty  to  be  conversant 
with  affairs  of  the  day,  and  he  had  formed  opinions  as 
any  intelligent  man  must  necessarily. 

"But  you  could  lay  aside  those  opinions  and  reach  a 
conclusion  based  purely  on  evidence,  of  course,  Mr. 
Broadwell?" 

"Oh,  yes,  sir,"  said  Broadwell,  with  an  unctuous 
smile  that  deprecated  the  idea  of  his  being  influenced  in 
an^  but  the  legitimate  way. 


454   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

"We  are  thoroughly  satisfied  with  Mr.  Broadwell, 
your  Honor,"  said  Eades. 

"One  minute,  Mr.  Broadwell,"  began  Marriott. 

Glassford  looked  at  Marriott  the  surprise  he  felt  at 
his  presumption,  and  Marriott  felt  an  opposition  in  the 
room.  Broadwell  shifted  slightly,  pursed  his  lips 
smugly  and  looked  down  on  Marriott  with  his  wise  be- 
nevolence. 

"Mr.  Broadwell,  you  say  you  read  the  accounts  of 
the  tragedy  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Did  you  read  all  of  them?" 

"I  believe  so." 

"Read  the  report  of  the  evidence  given  on  the  pre- 
liminary hearing?" 

"Yes." 

"Read  the  editorials  in  the  Courier  f" 

"Yes." 

"You  respect  its  opinions  ?" 

"I  do,  yes." 

"Your  pastor  preached  a  sermon  on  this  case,  did 
he  not?" 

"He  made  applications  of  it  in  an  illustrative  way." 

"Quite  edifying,  of  course  ?" 

Marriott  knew  he  had  made  a  mistake,  but  the  im- 
pulse to  have  this  fling  had  been  irresistible.  Broad- 
well bowed  coldly. 

"And  all  these  things  influenced  you  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Exactly.  And  on  them  you  have  formed  an  opin- 
ion respecting  the  guilt  or  innocence  of  this  young 
man  ?" 

Broadvi^ell  cast  a  hasty  sidelong  glance  at  Glassford, 


THE  TURN   OF  THE   BALANCE      455 

as  if  this  had  gone  quite  far  enough,  but  he  said  pa- 
tiently : 

"Yes." 

*'And  it  would  require  evidence  to  remove  that  opin- 
ion?" 

"I  presume  it  would." 

"You  know  it  would,  don't  you  ?" 

"Yes." 

"We  submit  a  challenge  for  cause,  your  Honor," 
said  Marriott. 

Glassford  turned  to  Broadwell  with  an  air  that  told 
how  speedily  he  would  make  an  end  of  this  business. 

"You  have  talked  with  none  of  the  witnesses,  Mr. 
Broadwell?" 

"Oh,  no,  sir,"  said  Broadwell,  smiling  at  the  absurd- 
ity. 

"The  accounts  you  read  were  not  stenographic  re- 
ports of  the  evidence  ?" 

"No,  sir ;  abstracts,  rather,  I  should  say." 

"Exactly.  Were  the  conclusions  you  came  to  opin- 
ions, or  mere  impressions  ?" 

"Mere  impressions  I  should  say,  your  Honor." 

"They  are  not  to  be  dignijfied  by  the  name  of  opin- 
ions?" 

"Hardly,  your  Honor." 

"If  they  were,  you  could  lay  them  aside  and  try  this 
case  on  its  merits,  basing  your  judgment  on  the  evi- 
dence as  it  is  adduced,  and  on  the  law  as  the  court  shall 
declare  it  to  you  ?" 

"Certainly,  your  Honor." 

Glassford  turned  away. 

"If  the  court,"  he  said,  "Had  any  doubts  in  this  mat- 
ter, they  would  be  resolved  in  favor  of  the  defendant^ 


456      THE  TURN  OF!  THE  BALANCE 

but  the  court  has  none.  My  own  knowledge  of  Mr. 
Broadwell  and  of  his  standing  in  the  community  leads 
me  to  declare  that  he  is  the  very  man  for  such  impor- 
tant service,  and  the  court  feels  that  we  are  to  be  con- 
gratulated on  having  him  to  assist  us  in  trying  this 
case.  The  challenge  is  overruled.  You  may  take  your 
seat  in  the  jury-box,  Mr.  Broadwell.'* 

Glassford  consulted  his  notes;  the  peremptory  chaU 
lenges  were  all  exhausted  now. 

"The  jury  will  rise  and  be  sworn,"  he  said. 

Marriott  had  suffered  his  first  defeat.  He  looked  at 
the  jury.  A  change  had  taken  place ;  these  twelve  men 
no  longer  impressed  him  as  an  institution  grown  old 
and  gray  with  the  waste  of  ages.  They  no  longer  held 
for  him  any  symbolic  meaning;  little  by  little,  during 
the  long,  tedious  hours,  individualities  had  developed, 
the  idea  of  unity  had  receded.  Seen  thus  closely  and 
with  increasing  familiarity,  the  formal  disappeared, 
the  man  emerged  from  the  mass,  and  Marriott  found 
himself  face  to  face  with  the  personal  equation.  He 
sat  with  one  arm  thrown  over  the  back  of  his  chair  and 
looked  at  them,  watching,  as  it  were,  this  institution 
disintegrate  into  men,  merely;  men  without  the  in- 
spiration of  noble  ideals,  swayed  by  primitive  impulses, 
unconsciously  responsive  to  the  obscure  and  mysteri- 
ous currents  of  human  feeling  then  flowing  through 
the  minds  of  the  people,  generating  and  setting  in  mo- 
tion vague,  terrible  and  irresistible  powers.  He  could 
feel  those  strange,  occult  currents  moving  in  him — he 
must  set  himself  against  them  that  he  might  stand, 
though  all  alone,  for  the  ignorant  boy  whose  soul  had 
strayed  so  far. 

He  studied  the  faces  of  the  twelve  men,  trying  ta 


THE  TURN  OR  THE  BALANCE      457 

discover  some  hope,  some  means  of  moving  and  win- 
ning them.  There  was  old  McGiffert,  who  alone  of 
all  the  first  venire  had  withstood  the  mutations  of  the 
last  four  days,  sitting  serene  and  triumphant,  sure  of 
his  two  dollars  a  day,  utterly  unconscious  of  the  grave 
and  tragic  significance  of  the  responsibilities  he  had 
been  so  anxious  to  assume.  There  was  Osgood,  the 
contractor,  a  long  row  of  cigars,  a  tooth-brush,  and  a 
narrow  comb  sticking  out  of  his  waistcoat  pocket; 
Duncan,  with  his  short  sandy  hair  covering  sparsely  a 
red  scalp  that  moved  curiously  when  he  uttered  certain 
words ;  Foley,  constantly  munching  his  tobacco,  as  he 
had  been  doing  for  sixty  years,  so  that  when  he  spoke 
he  did  so  with  closed  lips;  Slade,  the  man  with  the 
rough  red  face,  who  found,  as  Marriott  had  at  first 
thought,  amusement  in  everything,  for  he  smiled  often, 
showing  his  gums  and  a  row  of  tiny  unclean  teeth ; 
there  was  Grey,  constantly  moving  his  false  teeth 
about  in  his  mouth;  Church,  with  thin  gray  hair, 
white  mustache  and  one  large  front  tooth  that  pressed 
into  his  lower  lip;  and  then  Menard,  the  grocer's  clerk, 
wearing  black  clothes  that  long  ago  had  passed  out  of 
fashion;  his  sallow,  thin,  unhealthy  face  wearing  an 
expression  of  fright.  Marriott  recalled  how  uncertain 
Menard  had  been  in  his  notions  about  capital  punish- 
ment ;  how,  at  first,  he  had  said  he  was  opposed  to  it, 
and  how  at  last,  under  Glassford's  metaphysical  dis- 
tinctions, the  boy  had  declared  that  he  would  do  his 
duty.  Marriott  had  been  encouraged,  thinking  that 
Menard's  natural  impulses  might  reassert  themselves, 
but  now,  alas,  he  recognized  that  Menard  in  the  hands 
of  other  men  would  be  but  the  putty  he  so  much  re- 
sembled.   Then  there  were  Reder,  the  gray  old  Ger- 


458   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

man,  and  Chisholm  and  McCann,  the  aged  farm- 
ers with  the  unkempt  beards,  and  Broadwell — ah, 
Broadwell !  For  it  was  Broadwell  who  held  Marriott's 
gaze  at  last,  as  he  held  his  interest ;  it  was  Broadwell, 
indeed,  who  was  that  jury.  Naturally  stronger  than 
the  rest,  his  reputation,  his  pomposity,  the  character 
Glassford  had  generously  given  him — all  these  marked 
him  as  the  man  who  would  reach  that  jury's  verdict 
for  it,  and  then,  as  foreman,  solemnly  bear  it  in.  Mar- 
riott looked  at  him,  smug,  sleek,  overfed,  unctuous,  his 
shining  bald  head  inclined  at  a  meek  angle,  his  little 
eyes  half  closed,  his  pendulous  jowls  hiding  his  collar, 
and  realized  that  this  was  the  man  to  whom  he  had  to 
try  Archie's  case,  and  he  would  rather  have  tried  the 
case  to  any  other  man  in  town.  He  wished  that  he  had 
used  his  challenges  differently ;  any  other  twelve  of  the 
two  hundred  men  who  had  been  summoned  would 
have  served  his  purpose  better;  he  had  a  wild,  impo- 
tent regret  that  he  had  not  allowed  the  last  man  to  re- 
main before  Broadwell  suddenly  appeared.  Broadwell 
was  standing  there  now  with  the  others,  his  hand 
raised,  his  head  thrown  back,  stretching  the  white 
flabby  skin  of  his  throat  like  a  frog's,  his  eyes  closed, 
as  if  he  were  about  to  pronounce  a  benediction  on 
Archie  before  sending  him  to  his  doom. 

Gard  was  repeating  the  oath : 

"  'You  and  each  of  you  do  solemnly  swear  that  you 
will  well  and  truly  try  and  true  deliverance  make  in  the 
cause  now  pending,  wherein  the  State  is  plaintiff  and 
Archie  Koerner  is  defendant,  s'elp  you  God.' " 

Broadwell  bowed,  as  if  for  the  jury;  Marriott  almost 
expected  him  to  say  "Amen." 


XIV 

The  next  morning  there  were  the  same  eager,  impa- 
tient crowds,  but  there  were  yet  other  preliminaries; 
the  case  must  now  be  stated  to  the  jury.  And  Eades, 
speaking  solemnly,  told  the  jury  of  the  pursuit  of 
Archie  and  the  death  of  Kouka,  all  of  which  had  been 
repeated  many  times.  He  spoke  of  the  importance  of 
government,  of  the  sacredness  of  human  life,  how 
heinous  a  sin  it  is  to  kill  people,  and  how  important 
it  was  to  put  Archie  to  death  immediately  in  order  that 
this  truth  might  be  better  understood,  how  serious 
were  the  juror's  duties,  how  disagreeable  his  own  du- 
ties, and  so  forth.  Then  he  began  to  describe  the  mur- 
der of  Margaret  Flanagan,  but  Marriott  objected. 
They  wrangled  over  this  for  some  time,  and,  indeed, 
until  Eades,  assured  that  the  jurors  had  been  sufficient- 
ly reminded  of  the  Flanagan  murder,  felt  satisfied. 
Then  Marriott  stated  the  case  for  the  defense,  and 
finally,  that  afternoon,  the  trial  began  in  earnest. 

Bentley,  following  his  elaborate  system  of  arrange- 
ment, bustled  about  with  a  deputy  at  hand  so  that  he 
could  command  him,  pushed  back  the  crowd,  locked 
the  doors,  and  thereafter  admitted  no  one  unless  he 
wished  to.  The  spectators  filled  the  space  outside  the 
bar,  and  encroached  on  the  space  within,  forming  a 
dense,  closely-packed  circle  in  the  center  of  which 
were  the  jury,  the  lawyers  at  their  tables,  Archie  and 
Danner,  the  reporters,  the  old  stenographer,  and  Glass- 

459 


46o   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

ford  looking  down  from  the  bench.  The  spectators  in 
a  strained,  nervous  silence  stared  into  the  pit  where 
the  game  was  to  be  played,  the  game  for  which  Eades 
and  Marriott  were  nerving  themselves,  the  game  that 
had  Archie's  life  for  its  colossal  stake. 

But  as  the  afternoon  wore  on,  expectations  were  not 
realized;  the  interest  flagged.  It  was  seen  that  the 
sensations  would  not  come  for  days,  the  proceedings 
were  to  move  slowly  and  with  a  vast  and  pompous  de- 
liberation to  their  unrevealed  climax.  Eades  called  as 
witnesses  several  laborers  who  had  been  of  the  crowd 
that  pursued  Archie  and  Curly  down  the  tracks  that 
morning.  After  them  came  Weber,  the  coroner,  a 
fleshy  man  with  red  face  and  neck,  who  described  the 
inquest,  then  his  official  physician,  Doctor  Zimmerman, 
a  young  man  with  a  pointed  beard,  who  wore  three 
chains  on  his  breast,  one  for  the  eye-glasses  he  was 
constantly  readjusting,  another  for  his  clinical  ther- 
mometer, and  another  for  his  watch.  He  gave  the  de- 
tails of  the  post-mortem  examination,  described  the 
dissection  of  Kouka's  body,  and  identified  the  bullet. 

The  crowd  pressed  forward,  trying  to  find  some 
sensation  in  the  ghastly  relic.  Eades  gave  the  bullet 
to  the  nearest  juryman,  who  examined  it  carefully 
and  passed  it  on.  It  went  from  hand  to  hand  of  the 
jurymen,  each  rolled  it  in  his  palm,  studied  it  with  a 
look  of  wisdom ;  finally  it  returned  to  Eades.  And  the 
jurors  leaned  back  in  their  chairs,  convinced  that 
Kouka  was  dead. 

The  next  morning  there  were  other  laborers,  other 
physicians,  then  railroad  detectives,  who  identified  the 
revolver.  The  day  wore  away,  the  atmosphere  of  the 
court-room  became  heavy  and  somnolent.  As  skilfully 


THE  TURN.  OF  THE  BALANCE      461 

as  he  could,  Eades  drew  from  his  witnesses  their 
stories,  avoiding  all  questions  that  might  disclose  facts 
to  Archie's  advantage,  and  Marriott  battled  with  these 
hostile  witnesses  in  long  cross-examinations,  seeking 
in  vain  for  some  flaw,  some  inconsistency.  The  tedium 
told  on  the  nerves, — Eades  and  Marriott  had  several 
quarrels,  exchanged  insults,  Glassford  was  petulant, 
the  stolid  jurymen  exhaled  breaths  as  heavy  as  snores. 
Another  day  came,  and  judge  and  lawyers  began  with 
steadier  nerves,  more  impersonal  and  formal  manners ; 
they  were  able  to  maintain  a  studious  courtesy,  the 
proceedings  had  an  institutional  character,  something 
above  the  human,  but  as  the  day  advanced,  as  the 
struggle  grew  more  intense,  as  the  wrangling  became 
more  frequent,  it  was  seen  that  they  were  but  men, 
breaking  down  and  giving  way  to  those  passions  their 
calm  and  stately  institution  condemned  and  punished 
in  other  men. 

And  through  it  all  Archie  sat  there  silent,  and,  as 
the  newspaper  men  scrupulously  reported  each  day, 
unmoved.  But  Marriott  could  hear  him  breathe,  and 
when  occasionally  he  glanced  at  him,  could  see  tiny 
drops  of  moisture  glistening  on  his  brow,  could  see  the 
cords  swelling  in  his  neck,  could  even  hear  the  gurgle 
in  his  throat  as  he  tried  to  swallow.  Archie  rarely 
spoke ;  he  glanced  at  the  witnesses,  now  and  then  at  the 
jurors,  but  most  of  all  at  Eades.  Thus  far,  however, 
the  testimony  had  been  formal ;  there  was  yet  no  evi- 
dence of  premeditation  on  Archie's  part,  and  that  was 
the  vital  thing. 


XV 


And  yet  Marriott  knew  better  than  to  hope.  As  he 
walked  to  the  court-house  Monday  morning,  he  won- 
dered how  he  was  to  get  through  the  week.  He  looked 
on  those  he  met  as  the  strangely  happy  and  favored 
beings  of  another  world,  and  envied  them  keenly,  even 
the  ragged  outcasts  shoveling  the  newly-fallen  snow 
from  the  sidewalks.  And  there  in  the  upper  corridor 
was  that  hated  crowd,  that  seemed  to  be  in  league  with 
Eades,  Glassford,  the  jury,  the  police,  the  whole  ma- 
chinery of  the  state,  to  kill  Archie,  to  stamp  his  identity 
out  of  the  world.  Just  then  the  crowd  gyrated  in  pre- 
cipitated interest,  and  he  saw  Bentley  and  Banner 
bringing  Archie  down  the  hall,  all  three  stamping  the 
snow  from  their  boots.  And  he  saw  another  figure, 
new  to  him,  but  one  that  instantly  filled  him  with 
strange  foreboding.  Why,  he  could  not  tell,  but  this 
was  the  eflFect  of  the  figure  that  shambled  down  the 
corridor.  The  man  was  alone,  a  tall  gaunt  form  in 
rough  gray  clothes,  with  a  long  gray  face,  walking  in 
loose  gangling  strides,  flinging  his  huge  feet  one  after 
the  other,  leaving  moist  tracks  behind  him.  A  hickory 
cane  dangled  by  its  crook  from  his  left  arm,  he  slowly 
smoked  a  cigar,  taking  it  from  his  mouth  occasionally 
with  an  uncouth  gesture.  As  he  swung  along  in  his 
awkward,  spraddling  gait,  his  frame  somehow  con- 
veyed paradoxically  an  impression  of  strength.  It 
seemed  that  at  any  moment  this  man  was  in  danger  of 

462 


THE  TURN   OF   THE   BALANCE      463 

coming  apart  knd  collapsing — until  Marriott  caught 
his  restless  eye. 

Archie  had  seen  him  the  instant  he  entered  the  cor- 
ridor. Marriott  detected  Archie's  recognition,  and  he 
looked  intently  for  some  inkling  of  the  meaning.  The 
man,  in  the  same  instant,  saw  Archie,  stopped,  took 
his  cigar  from  his  lips,  spat,  and  said  in  a  peculiar, 
soft  voice: 

"Why,  Archie,  my  boy." 

This  incident  deepened  Marriott's  foreboding.  A  few 
moments  later,  as  the  bailiff  was  opening  court,  the 
man  entered  with  a  familiar  and  accustomed  air,  and 
Bentley  got  a  chair  and  made  him  comfortable  so  that 
he  might  enjoy  the  trial. 

"Who's  that  man  ?"  Marriott  whispered  to  Archie. 

"That?  That's  old  Jimmy  Ball,  the  deputy  warden 
at  the  pen." 

"What  do  you  suppose — " 

"He's  here  to  knock,  that's  what.  He's  here  to  rap 
ag'in  me,  the  old — " 

Archie  applied  his  ugly  epithet  with  an  expression 
of  intensest  hatred,  and  glared  at  Ball.  Now  and  then 
Archie  repeated  the  epithet  under  his  breath,  trying 
each  time  to  strengthen  it  with  some  new  oath. 

But  Marriott  just  then  had  no  time  to  learn  the  sig- 
nificance of  this  strange  presence.  Eades  was  calling 
a  witness. 

"Detective  Quinn !" 

Quinn  came  in  after  the  usual  delay,  walking  with 
the  policeman's  swagger  even  after  years  on  the  de- 
tective force.  He  came  in  with  his  heavy  shoulders  set 
well  back,  and  his  head  held  high,  but  his  eyes  had  the 
fixed  stare  of  self-consciousness.    Taking  the  oath,  he 


464      THE  TURN,  OR  THE   BALANCE 

ascended  the  witness-stand,  leaned  over,  placed  his  hat 
against  the  side  of  the  chair,  and  then,  crossing  one 
fat  thigh  over  the  other,  held  it  in  position  with  his 
hand.  On  his  finger  flashed  a  diamond,  another  dia- 
mond sparkled  on  his  shirt-front. 

"Pipe  the  rocks !"  whispered  Archie.  "Know  where 
he  got  'em  ?  Jane  nicked  a  sucker  and  Quinn  made  her 
give  'em  to  him  for  not  rapping." 

Marrjott  impatiently  waved  Archie  into  silence ;  like 
all  clients  he  was  constantly  leaning  over  at  critical 
moments  of  the  trial  to  say  immaterial  things,  and,  be- 
sides, his  hot  moist  breath  directly  in  Marriott's  ear 
was  very  mipleasant. 

Eades  led  Quinn  through  the  preliminaries  of  his 
examination,  and  then  in  a  tone  that  indicated  an  ap- 
proach to  significant  parts  of  the  testimony,  he  said : 

"You  may  now  state,  Mr.  Quinn,  when  you  next  saw 
the  defendant." 

Quinn  threw  back  his  head,  fingered  his  close- 
cropped  red  mustache,  and  reflected  as  if  he  had  not 
thought  of  the  subject  for  a  long  time.  He  was  con- 
scious that  he  was  thus  far  the  most  important  witness 
of  the  trial.  He  relished  the  sensation,  and,  knowing 
how  damaging  his  testimony  would  be,  he  felt  a  crude 
satisfaction.  Presently  he  spoke,  his  voice  vibrating 
like  a  guitar  string  in  the  tense  atmosphere. 

"The  Friday  morning  before  the  Flanagan  murder." 

"Where  did  you  meet  him  ?" 

"In  Kentucky  Street  near  Cherokee." 

"Was  he  alone,  or  was  some  one  with  him  ?" 

"Another  man  was  with  him." 

"Who  was  that  other  man — if  you  know  ?" 


THE  TURN.  OF  THE   BAL'ANCE      465 

"He  was  art  old-timer ;  they  call  him  Dad." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  an  'old-timer'  ?" 

"An  old-time  thief — an  ex-convict." 

"Very  well.  Now  tell  the  jury  what  you  did — if 
anything." 

"Well,  I  knowed  Koerner  was  just  back  from  the 
pen,  and  we  got  to  talking." 

"What  did  he  say?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  just  remember.  We  chewed  the  rag  a 
little." 

Eades  scowled  and  hitched  up  his  chair. 

"Did  he  say  anything  about  Kouka  ?" 

"Hold  on!"  Marriott  shouted.  "We  object!  You 
know  perfectly  well  you  can't  lead  the  witness." 

"Well,  don't  get  excited,"  said  Eades,  as  if  he  never 
got  excited  himself;  as  he  had  not,  indeed,  in  that 
instance,  his  lawyer's  ruse  having  so  well  served  its 
purpose.  "I'll  withdraw  the  question."  He  thought  a 
moment  and  then  asked : 

"What  further,  if  anything,  was  said  ?" 

"Oh,"  said  Quinn,  who  had  understood.  "Well,  he 
asked  me  where  Kouka  was.  You  see  he  had  it  in  for 
Kouka." 

"No!"  cried  Marriott.  "Not  that." 

"Just  tell  what  he  said  about  Kouka,"  Eades  con- 
tinued. 

"I  was  trying  to,"  said  Quinn,  as  if  hurt  by  Mar- 
riott's interruption.  "Ever  since  Kouka  sent  him  up 
for—" 

"Now  look  here !"  Marriott  cried,  "this  has  gone  far 
enough.    Mr.  Eades  knows — " 

"Oh,  proceed,  gentlemen,"  said  Glass  ford  wearily, 


466   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

as  if  he  were  far  above  any  such  petty  differences,  and 
the  spectators  laughed,  relishing  these  little  passages 
between  the  lawyers. 

"Mr.  Quinn,"  said  Eades  in  a  low,  almost  confiden- 
tial tone,  "confine  yourself  to  the  questions,  please. 
Answer  the  last  question." 

Quinn,  flashing  surly  and  reproachful  glances  at 
Marriott,  replied: 

"Well,  he  asked  about  Kouka,  where  he  was  and  all 
that,  and  he  said,  says  he,  'I'm  going  to  get  him !'  " 

The  jury  was  listening  intently.  Even  Glassford 
cocked  his  head. 

"I  asked  him  what  he  meant,  and  he  said  he  had  it 
in  for  Kouka  and  was  going  to  croak  him." 

Archie  had  been  leaning  forward,  his  eyes  fixed  in 
an  incredulous  stare,  his  face  had  turned  red,  then 
white,  and  now  he  said,  almost  audibly : 

"Well,  listen  to  that,  will  you !" 

"Sh !"  said  Marriott. 

Archie  dropped  back,  and  Marriott  heard  him  mut- 
tering under  his  breath,  marveling  at  Quinn's  effront- 
ery. 

"Tell  the  jury  what  further,  if  anything,  was  said," 
Eades  was  saying. 

"Nothing  much,"  said  Quinn ;  "that  was  about  all." 

"What  did  you  do  after  that?" 

"I  placed  him  under  arrest." 

"Why?" 

"Well,  I  didn*t  think  it  was  safe  for  him  to  be 
around — feeling  that  way." 

"If  he  ain't  the  limit!"  Marriott  heard  Archie  ex- 
claim, and  he  began  his  whispered  curses  and  objurga- 
tions again.     In  his  excitement  and  impotent  rage, 


THE  TURN   OF  THE   BALANCE      '^(^y 

Marriott  was  exceedingly  irritable,  and  again  he  com- 
manded Archie  to  be  still. 

Eades  paused  in  his  examination,  bit  his  lip,  and 
winked  rapidly  as  he  thought.  The  atmosphere  of  the 
trial  showed  that  a  critical  moment  had  come.  Mar- 
riott, watching  Eades  out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye,  had 
quietly,  almost  surreptitiously  moved  back  from  the 
table,  and  he  sat  now  on  the  edge  of  the  chair.  The 
jurymen  were  glancing  from  Eades  to  Marriott,  then 
at  Quinn,  with  curious,  puzzled  expressions. 

"Mr.  Quinn,"  said  Eades,  looking  up,  "when  did  you 
next  see  Koerner — if  at  all  ?" 

"On  the  next  Tuesday  after  that." 

"Where?" 

"In  the  C.  and  M.  railroad  yards." 

"Who  was  with  you,  if  any  one?" 
.    "Detectives     Kouka,    and    Officers    Delaney    and 
O'Brien,  of  the  railroad,  and  Officers  Flaherty,  Nun- 
nally,  O'Toole  and  Finn — ^besides  a  lot  of  citizens.     I 
don't—" 

"That  will  suffice.  And  how  came  you — ^but  first — " 
Eades  interrupted  himself.  Marriott  was  still  watch- 
ing him  narrowly,  and  Eades,  it  seemed,  was  postpon- 
ing a  question  he  feared  to  ask.  "First,  tell  me — tell 
the  jury — where  Koerner  was,  and  who,  if  anybody, 
was  with  him?" 

"Well,  sir,  this  here  fellow  they  call  Curly — Jack- 
son's his  name — he's  a  thief — a  yegg  man  as  they  call 
'em — he  was  with  him ;  they  was  running  and  we  was 
chasing  'em." 

"And  why  were  you  chasing  them  ?" 

"We  had  orders." 

"From  whom  ?" 


468      THE  TURN   OF.  THE  BALANCE 

"Inspector  McFee." 

"What  were  those  orders  ?" 

"Well,  sir,  there  had  been  a  report  of  that  Flanagan 
job—" 

"Stop  \"  Marriott  shouted.    "We  object." 

"One  moment,  Mr.  Quinn,"  said  Fades,  with  an  ef- 
fect of  quieting  Marriott  as  much  as  of  staying  Quinn. 
Marriott  had  risen  and  was  leaning  over  the  table. 
Eades  hesitated,  realizing  that  the  question  on  his  lips 
would  precipitate  one  of  the  great  conflicts  of  the  trial. 
He  was  in  grave  doubt  of  the  propriety  of  this  ques- 
tion ;  he  had  been  considering  it  for  weeks,  not  only  in 
its  legal  but  in  its  moral  aspect.  He  had  been  unable 
to  convince  himself  that  Archie  had  been  concerned  in 
the  murder  of  Margaret  Flanagan;  he  had  been 
uncertain  of  his  ability  to  show  premeditation  in  the 
killing  of  Kouka.  He  knew  that  he  could  not  legally 
convict  Archie  of  murdering  the  woman,  and  he  knew 
he  could  not  convict  him  of  murdering  the  detective 
unless  he  took  advantage  of  the  feeling  that  had  been 
aroused  by  the  Flanagan  tragedy.  Furthermore,  if  he 
failed  to  convict  Archie,  the  public  would  not  under- 
stand, but  would  doubt  and  criticize  him,  and  his  repu- 
tation would  suffer.  And  he  hesitated,  afraid  of  his 
case,  afraid  of  himself.  The  moments  were  flying,  a 
change  even  then  was  taking  place,  a  subtle  doubt  was 
being  instilled  in  the  minds  of  the  crowd,  of  the  jury- 
men even.  He  hesitated  another  moment,  and  then  to 
justify  himself  in  his  own  mind,  he  said: 

"Mr.  Quinn,  don't  answer  the  question  I  am  about 
to  ask  until  the  court  tells  you  to  do  so."  He  paused, 
and  then:    "Fll  ask  you,  Mr.  Quinn,  to  tell  the  jury 


,  THE  TURN   of:  THE   BAL'ANCE  '    469 

when  you  first  heard  the  report  of  the  murder  of  Mar- 
garet Flanagan." 

"Object!" 

Marriott  sprang  to  his  feet,  his  eyes  blazing,  his  fig- 
ure tense  with  protest. 

*'I  object!  We  might  as  well  fight  this  thing  out 
right  here." 

"What  is  your  objection?"  asked  Glassford. 

"Just  this,  your  Honor,"  Marriott  replied.  "The 
question,  if  allowed,  would  involve  another  homicide, 
for  which  this  defendant  is  not  on  trial.  It  is  not  com- 
petent at  this  stage  of  the  case  to  show  specifically  or 
generally  other  offenses  with  which  this  defendant  has 
been  charged  or  of  which  he  is  suspected.  It  would  be 
competent,  if  ever,  only  as  showing  reputation,  and 
the  reputation  of  the  defendant  has  not  yet  been  put 
in  evidence.  Further,  if  answered  in  its  present  form, 
the  evidence  would  be  hearsay." 

Eades  had  been  idly  turning  a  lead-pencil  end  for 
end  on  the  table,  and  now  with  a  smile  he  slowly  got 
to  his  feet. 

"If  the  Court  please,"  he  began,  "Mr.  Marriott  evi- 
dently does  not  understand;  we  are  not  seeking  to 
show  the  defendant's  reputation,  or  that  he  is  charged 
with  or  suspected  of  any  other  crime.  What  we  are 
trying  to  show  is  that  these  officers,  Detective  Quinn 
and  the  deceased,  were  merely  performing  a  duty  when 
they  attempted  to  arrest  Koerner,  that  they  were  act- 
ing under  orders.  What  we  offer  to  show  is  this :  Mar- 
garet Flanagan  had  been  murdered  and  the  officers 
had  reasonable  grounds  to  believe  that  Koerner — " 

"Now  see  here!"  cried  Marriott.     "That  isn't  fair. 


470   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

and  you  know  it.  You  are  trying  to  influence  the  jury, 
and  I'm  surprised  that  a  lawyer  of  your  abiHty  and 
standing  should  resort  to  tactics  so  unprofessional — " 

Eades  colored  and  was  about  to  reply,  but  Marriott 
would  not  yield. 

"I  say  that  such  tactics  are  unworthy  of  counsel; 
they  would  be  unworthy  of  the  veriest  pettifogger !" 

Eades  flushed  angrily. 

"Do  you  mean  to  charge — "  he  challenged. 

"Gentlemen,  gentlemen!''  Glassford  warned  them. 
"Address  yourselves  to  the  Court." 

Eades  and  Marriott  exchanged  angry  and  menacing 
glances.  The  jury  looked  on  with  a  passivity  that 
passed  very  well  for  gravity.  At  the  risk  of  incurring 
the  jurors'  displeasure,  Marriott  asked  that  they  be  ex- 
cused while  the  question  was  debated,  and  Glassford 
sent  them  from  the  room. 

The  legal  argument  began.  Marriott  had  countless 
precedents  to  justify  Glassford's  ruling  in  his  favor, 
just  as  Eades  had  countless  precedents  to  justify  Glass- 
ford's  ruling  in  his  favor,  but  to  the  spectators  it  all 
seemed  useless,  tediovis  and  silly.  A  murder  had  been 
committed,  they  thought,  and  hence  it  was  necessary 
that  some  one  be  killed ;  and  there  sat  Archie  Koerner 
— why  wait  and  waste  all  this  time?  why  not  proceed 
at  once  to  the  tragic  denouement  and  decree  his  death  ? 

Glassford,  maintaining  a  gravity,  and  as  if  he  were 
considering  all  the  cases  Marriott  and  Eades  were  cit- 
ing, and  weighing  them  nicely  one  against  the  other, 
listened  to  the  arguments  all  day,  gazing  out  of  the 
window  at  the  scene  so  familiar  to  him.  Across  the 
street,  in  an  upper  room  of  a  house,  was  a  window  he 
had  been  interested  in  for  months.  A  woman  now  and 


THE   TURN   of:   THE   BALANCE      471 

then  hovered  near  it,  and  Glassford  had  long  been  tan- 
talized by  his  inability  to  see  clearly  what  she  was  do- 
ing. 

The  next  morning  Glassford  announced  his  decision. 
It  was  to  the  effect  that  the  State  would  be  permitted 
to  show  only  that  a  felony  had  been  committed,  and 
that  the  officers  had  had  grounds  for  believing  that 
Archie  had  committed  it ;  but  as  to  details  of  that  mur- 
der, or  whether  Archie  had  committed  it,  or  who  had 
committed  it — ^that  should  all  be  excluded.  This  was 
looked  upon  as  a  victory  for  the  defense,  and,  at  Mar- 
riott's request,  Glassford  told  the  jurors  that  they  were 
not  to  consider  anything  that  had  been  said  about  the 
Flanagan  murder  or  Archie's  connection  with  it.  All 
this,  he  told  them,  they  were  to  dismiss  from  their 
minds  and  not  to  be  influenced  by  it  in  the  least.  The 
jurymen  paid  Glassford  an  exaggerated,  almost  servile 
attention,  and  when  he  had  done,  several  of  them  nod- 
ded. And  all  were  glad  that  they  were  to  hear  noth- 
ing more  of  the  Flanagan  murder,  for,  during  the  Idng 
hours  of  their  exclusion  from  the  court-room,  they 
had  talked  of  nothing  but  the  Flanagan  murder,  had 
recalled  all  of  its  details,  and  argued  and  disputed 
about  it,  until  they  had  tired  of  it,  and  then  had  gone 
on  to  recall  other  murders  that  had  been  committed  in 
the  county,  and  finally,  other  murders  of  which  they 
had  heard  and  read. 

Quinn,  in  telling  again  the  story  the  jurors  had 
heard  so  many  times  in  court,  and  had  read  in  the 
newspapers,  frequently  referred  to  the  Flanagan  mur- 
der, until  Marriott  wearied  of  the  effort  to  prevent 
him.  He  knew  that  it  was  useless  to  cross-examine 
Quinn,  useless  to  attempt  to  impress  on  the  crystallized 


472   JHE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

f 

minds  of  the  jurymen  the  facts  as  they  had  occurred. 
The  jurymen  were  not  Hstening;  they  were  looking  at 
the  ceiHng,  or  leaning  their  heads  on  their  hands,  en- 
during the  proceedings  as  patiently  as  they  could,  as 
patiently  as  Eades  or  Quinn  or  Glassford.  And  Mar- 
riott reflected  on  the  inadequacy  of  every  means  of 
communication  between  human  beings.  How  was  he 
to  make  them  understand  ?  How  was  he  to  get  them 
to  assume,  if  for  an  instant  only,  his  point  of  view? 
Here  they  were  in  a  court  of  justice,  an  institution  that 
had  been  evolved,  by  the  pressure  of  economic  and  so- 
cial forces,  through  slow,  toiling  ages;  the  witnesses 
were  sworn  to  tell  "the  truth,  the  whole  truth,  and 
nothing  but  the  truth,"  and  yet,  such  was  man's  pueril- 
ity and  impotence,  such  was  the  imperfection  of  his 
means  of  conveying  ideas,  that  the  whole  truth  could 
not  possibly  be  told — a  thousand  elements  and  inci- 
dents must  be  omitted;  the  moods,  for  instance,  of 
Archie  when  he  talked  to  Quinn  or  to  Kouka,  the  ex- 
pressions on  their  faces,  the  light  in  their  eyes,  indica- 
tions far  more  potent  than  mere  words,  words  that 
might  be  lightly,  trivially,  innocently  spoken  one  day 
and  under  one  set  of  circumstances,  but  which,  on 
some  other  day  and  under  other  circumstances,  would 
take  on  a  terrible,  blasting,  tragic  significance.  Above 
all,  that  intangible  thing,  the  atmosphere  of  the  oc- 
casion— ^this  could  by  no  possibility  be  reproduced  even 
though  Quinn  made  every  effort  to  be  honest.  And 
how  much  greater  the  impossibility  when  Quinn  was 
willing  to  be  disingenuous,  to  allow  the  prejudices  and 
the  passions  of  his  hearers  to  reflect  on  his  words  their 
own  sentiments,  so  that  the  hatred  in  the  hearts  of  this 
crowd,  this  jury,  these  prosecutors,  might  seem  to  be 


THE   TURN   OF  THE   BALANCE      473 

a  hatred,  instead,  in  Archie's  breast !  Realizing  the  im- 
possibility, Marriott  felt  again  the  strong,  occult  influ- 
ences that  opposed  him,  and  had  scarcely  the  strength 
to  cross-examine  Quinn.  And  yet  he  must  make  the 
effort,  and  for  two  long  hours  he  battled  with  Quinn, 
^et  his  wits  and  his  will  against  him,  but  it  was  all 
hopeless.  For  he  was  not  opposing  Quinn's  mind 
alone,  he  was  opposing  the  collective  mind  of  this 
crowd  behind  him,  and  that  larger  crowd  in  the  city 
outside. 

"Anything  further,  Mr.  Marriott  ?"  asked  Glassford. 

Marriott  had  a  momentary  rage  at  this  impersona- 
tion of  the  vengeful  state  sitting  before  him,  and  ex- 
claimed with  disgust: 

"Oh,  I  guess  not." 


XVI 


TKe  instant  Marriott  entered  the  court-House  the 
next  morning  he  was  sensible  of  a  change;  it  was  as 
palpable  as  the  heavy,  overheated  atmosphere  indoors 
after  the  cool  air  outdoors.  He  could  not  account  for 
this  change;  he  knew  only  that  it  had  come  in  the 
night,  and  that  it  boded  some  calamity  in  the  world. 
Already  it  seemed  to  have  had  its  effect  on  the  men  he 
met,  clerks,  attaches,  and  loafers ;  they  glanced  at  him 
stealthily,  then  averted  their  eyes  quickly.  Somehow 
they  filled  Marriott  with  loathing  and  disgust. 

As  he  went  up  in  the  swiftly-ascending  elevator,  the 
old  man  who  operated  it  gave  him  that  same  look,  and 
then  observed : 

"Something's  in  the  air  to-day." 

Yes,  thought  Marriott,  something  is  in  the  air.  But 
what? 

'*I  reckon  it's  going  to  storm,"  the  white-headed 
veteran  of  the  great  war  went  on.  "My  rheumatiz 
hurts  like  hell  this  morning." 

What  mysterious  relation  was  it,  wondered  Mar- 
riott, that  bound  this  old  man  through  his  joints — 
gnarled  by  the  exposure  of  his  service  to  his  country 
so  long  before — ^to  all  nature,  foretelling  her  convul- 
sions and  cataclysms?  What  mysterious  relation  was 
it  that  bound  men's  minds  to  the  moral  world,  foretell- 
ing as  well  its  catastrophies  and  tragedies  ? 

"I  reckon  it's  the  January  thaw,"  the  old  fellow  jab- 
474 


THE   TURN   OF   THE   BALANCE      475 

bered  on,  his  mind  never  rising  above  the  mere  phys- 
ical manifestations  of  nature. 

The  crowd  was  denser  than  ever,  and  there  in  the 
front  row,  where  she  had  been  every  day  of  the  trial, 
was  old  Mrs.  Koerner,  with  eyes  that  every  day  grew 
deeper  and  wider,  as  more  and  more  tragedy  was  re- 
flected in  their  profound  and  mysterious  depths. 

"Call  Henry  Griscom,"  said  Eades. 

The  crowd,  the  jury,  the  lawyers,  waited.  Marriott 
wondered ;  he  felt  Archie's  breath  in  his  ear  and  heard 
his  teeth  chatter  as  he  whispered : 

"I  knew  old  Jimmy  Ball  had  something  framed  up. 
Great  God  r 

The  crowd  made  way,  and  the  tall,  lank  form  of  the 
deputy  warden  shambled  into  the  court-room.  A  man 
was  chained  to  him. 

"Great  God!"  Archie  was  chattering;  "he's  going 
to  split  on  me !" 

The  man  whom  Ball  had  just  unshackled  took  the 
oath,  and  looked  indecisively  into  Ball's  eyes.  Ball 
motioned  with  his  cane,  and  with  a  slow  mechanical 
step,  the  man  walked  to  the  witness-stand  and  perched 
himself  uneasily  on  the  edge  of  the  chair. 

Archie  fixed  his  eyes  on  the  man  in  a  steady,  in- 
tense blaze ;  Marriott  heard  him  cursing  horribly. 

"The  snitch !"  he  said  finally,  and  then  was  silent,  as 
if  he  had  put  his  whole  contempt  into  that  one  word. 

The  emaciated  form  of  the  man  in  the  witness  chair 
was  clothed  in  the  gray  jacket  and  trousers  of  a  convict 
of  the  first  grade.  The  collar  of  his  jacket  stood  out 
from  a  scrawny  neck  that  had  a  nude,  leathery,  rugose 
appearance,  like  the  neck  of  a  buzzard.  If  he  wore  a 
shirt,  it  was  not  visible,  either  at  his  neck  or  at  his 


476   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BAUANCE 

spindling  wrists.  As  he  hung  his  head  and  tried  to 
shrink  from  the  concentrated  gaze  of  the  crowd  into  his 
miserable  garments,  he  suggested  a  skeleton,  dressed 
up  in  ribald  sport.  It  was  not  until  Eades  had  spoken 
twice  that  the  man  raised  his  head,  and  then  he  raised 
it  slowly,  carefully,  as  if  dreading  to  look  men  in  the 
eyes.  His  shaven  face  was  long  and  yellow ;  the  skin 
at  the  points  of  his  jaw,  at  his  retreating  chin  and  at 
his  high  cheek-bones  was  tightly  stretched,  and  shone ; 
he  rolled  his  yellow  eye-balls,  and  winked  rapidly  in 
the  light  of  freedom  to  which  he  was  so  unaccustomed. 

"Who  is  he?"  Marriott  whispered  quickly. 

"An  old  con. — a  lifer,"  Archie  explained.  "One  o' 
them  false  alarms.  He's  no  good.  They've  promised 
to  put  him  on  the  street  for  this." 

But  Eades  had  begun  his  examination. 

"And  where  do  you  reside,  Mr.  Griscom?"  Eades 
was  asking  in  a  respectful  tone,  just  as  if  the  man 
might  be  a  resident  of  Claybourne  Avenue. 

"In  the  penitentiary." 

"How  long  have  you  been  there  ?" 

"Seventeen  years." 

"And  your  sentence  is  for  how  long?"  Eades  con- 
tinued. 

The  man's  eyes  drooped. 

"Life."    The  word  fell  in  a  hollow  silence. 

"And  do  you  know  this  man  here — Archie  Koer- 
ner?" 

The  convict,  as  if  by  an  effort,  raised  his  eyes  to 
Archie,  dropped  them  hastily  and  nodded. 

"What  do  you  say?"  said  Eades.  "You  must  speak 
up." 

*Tes,  I  know  him." 


THE  TURN  OF  THE  BAUANCE     '477 

"Where  did  you  know  him  ?" 

"In  the  pen." 

It  was  all  clear  now,  the  presence  of  Ball,  the  news- 
papers' promise  of  a  sensation,  the  doom  that  had  hung 
in  the  atmosphere  that  morning.  Marriott  watched  the 
convict  first  with  loathing,  then  with  pity,  as  he  real- 
ized the  fact  that  when  this  man  had  spoken  the  one 
word  "life" — he  had  meant  "death" — a  long,  lingering 
death,  drawn  out  through  meaningless  days  and 
months  and  years,  blank  and  barren,  a  waste  in  which 
this  one  incident,  this  railroad  journey  in  chains,  this 
temporary  reassertion  of  personality,  this  brief  distinc- 
tion in  the  crowded  court-room,  this  hour  of  change, 
of  contact  with  free  men,  were  circumstances  to  occupy 
his  vacant  mind  during  the  remaining  years  of  his 
misery,  until  his  death  should  end  and  life  once  more 
come  to  him. 

"And  now,  Mr.  Griscom,"  Eades  was  saying  with  a 
respect  that  was  a  mockery,  "tell  the  jury  just  what 
Koerner  said  to  you  about  Detective  Kouka." 

The  convict  hesitated,  his  chin  sank  into  the  upright 
collar  of  his  jacket,  his  eyes  roved  over  the  floor,  he 
crossed,  uncrossed  and  recrossed  his  legs,  picked  at  his 
cap  nervously. 

"Just  tell  the  jury,"  urged  Eades. 

The  convict  stiffly  raised  his  bony  hand  to  his  blue 
lips  to  stifle  the  cough  in  which  lay  his  only  hope  of 
release. 

"I  don't  just—"    He  stopped. 

The  crowd  strained  forward.  The  jury  glanced  un- 
easily from  Griscom  to  Eades,  and  back  to  Griscom 
again.  And  then  there  was  a  stir.  Ball  was  sidling  over 
from  the  clerk's  desk  to  a  chair  Bentle)^  wheeled  for- 


478   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

ward  for  him,  and  as  he  sank  into  it,  he  fixed  his  eyes 
on  Griscom.  The  convict  shifted  uneasily,  took  down 
his  hand,  coughed  loosely  and  swallowed  painfully,  his 
protuberant  larynx  rising  and  falling. 

"Just  give  Koerner's  exact  words,"  urged  Eades. 

**Well,  he  said  he  had  it  in  for  Kouka,  an'd  was  go- 
ing to  croak  him  when  he  got  home." 

*'What  did  he  mean  by  'croak,*  if  you  know  ?" 

"Kill  him.  He  said  he  was  a  dead  shot — he'd  learned 
it  in  the  army." 

"How  many  times  did  you  talk  with  him  ?" 

"Oh,  lots  of  times — every  time  we  got  a  chance. 
Sometimes  in  the  bolt  shop,  sometimes  in  the  hall  when 
we  had  permits." 

"What  else,  if  anything,  did  he  say  about  Kouka  ?" 

"Oh,  he  said  Kouka'd  been  laggin*  him,  and  he  was 
goin*  to  get  him.  He  talked  about  it  pretty  much  all 
the  time." 

"Is  that  all?" 

"That's  about  all,  yes,  sir." 

"Take  the  witness." 

Griscom,  evidently  relieved,  had  started  to  leave  the 
chair,  and  as  he  moved  he  drew  his  palm  across  a  gray 
brow  that  suddenly  broke  out  in  repulsive  little  drops 
of  perspiration. 

"One  moment,  Griscom,"  said  Marriott,  "I'd  like  to 
ask  you  a  few  questions." 

The  court  was  very  still,  and  every  one  hung  with'  an 
interest  equal  to  Marriott's  on  the  convict's  next  words. 
Griscom  found  all  this  interest  too  strong;  his  pallid 
lips  were  parted;  he  drew  his  breath  with  difficulty, 
his  chest  was  moving  with  automatic  jerks;  presently 
he  coughed. 


THE   TURN    OF   THE    BALANCE       479 

Marriott  began  to  question  the  convict  about  his 
conversations  with  Archie.  He  did  this  in  the  belief 
that  while  Archie  had  no  doubt  breathed  his  vengeance 
against  Kouka,  his  words,  under  the  circumstances, 
were  not  to  be  given  that  dreadful  significance  which 
now  they  were  made  to  assume.  He  could  imagine 
that  they  had  been  uttered  idly,  and  that  they  bore  no 
real  relation  to  his  shooting  of  Kouka.  But  the  diffi- 
culty was  to  make  this  clear  to  the  crystallized,  stupid 
and  formal  minds  of  the  jury,  or  rather  to  Broad  well, 
who  was  the  jury.  He  tried  to  induce  Griscom  to  de- 
scribe the  circumstances  under  which  Archie  had  made 
these  threats,  but  Griscom  was  almost  as  stupid  as  the 
jurors,  and  the  law  was  more  stupid  than  either,  for 
Griscom  in  his  effort  to  meet  the  questions  was  con- 
tinually making  answers  that  involved  his  own  con- 
clusions, and  to  them  Eades  always  objected,  and 
Glassford  always  sustained  the  objections.  And  Mar- 
riott experienced  the  same  sensations  that  he  had  when 
Quinn  was  testifying.  There  was  no  way  to  reproduce 
Archie's  manner — ^his  tone,  his  expression,  the  look  in 
his  eyes. 

To  hide  his  chagrin,  Marriott  wiped  his  moutH  with 
his  handkerchief,  leaned  over  and  consulted  his  notes. 

"A  life  is  a  long  time,  isn't  it,  Griscom?''  he  re- 
sumed, gently  now. 

"Yes."    Griscom's  chin  fell  to  his  breast. 

"And  the  penitentiary  is  not  a  good  place  to  be  ?" 

Griscom  looked  up  with  the  first  flash  of  real  spirit 
he  had  displayed. 

"I  wouldn't  send  a  dog  there,  Mr.  Marriott !" 

"No,"  said  Marriott,  "and  you'd  like  to  get  out?'* 

"Sure." 


48o   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

"YouVe  applied  for  a  pardon?" 

*'Yes." 

Marriott's  heart  was  beating  fast.  At  last  he  Had  a 
hope.  He  could  hear  the  ticking  of  the  big  clock  on 
the  wall,  he  could  catch  the  faint  echoes  of  his  voice 
against  the  high  ceiling  of  the  room  whose  acoustic 
properties  were  so  poor,  he  could  hear  the  very  breath- 
ing of  the  crowd  behind  him. 

"Mr.  Griscom,'*  said  Marriott,  wondering  if  that 
were  the  right  question,  longing  for  some  inspiration 
that  would  be  the  one  infallible  test  for  this  situation, 
"did  you  report  to  the  authorities  these  remarks  of 
Koerner's  at  the  time  he  made  them  ?" 

Griscom  hesitated. 

"No,  sir,"  he  answered. 

"Why  not?" 

"I  didn't  think  it  necessary." 

"Why  didn't  you  think  it  necessary?" 

"Well— I  didn't." 

"Was  it  because  you  didn't  think  Archie  was  in  ear- 
nest— because  his  words  were  not  serious  ?" 

"I  didn't  think  it  necessary." 

Marriott  wondered  whether  to  press  him  further — 
he  was  on  dangerous  ground. 

"To  whom  did  you  first  mention  them  ?" 

"To  the  deputy  warden." 

"This  man  here?"  Marriott  waved  his  hand  at  Ball 
with  a  contempt  he  was  not  at  all  careful  to  conceal. 

"Yes,  sir." 

"When  was  that?" 

"Oh,  about  a  month  ago." 

"After  Kouka's  death?" 

"Yes." 


THE  TURN   OF  THE  BALANCE      481 

f 

"Griscom,"  said  Marriott,  risking  his  whole  case  on 
the  words,  and  the  silence  in  the  room  deepened  until 
it  throbbed  like  a  profound  pain,  "when  Ball  came  to 
tell  you  to  testify  as  you  have  against  Archie,  he  pro- 
mised to  get  you  a  pardon,  did  he  not  ?" 

Eades  was  on  his  feet. 

"There  is  no  evidence  here  that  Ball  went  to  the  wit- 
ness," he  cried.    He  was  angry ;  his  face  was  very  red. 

Marriott  smiled. 

"Let  the  witness  answer,"  he  said. 

"The  question  is  improper,"  said  Glassford. 

"Is  it  not  a  fact,  Griscom,  that  Ball  made  you  some 
promise  to  induce  you  to  testify  as  you  have  ?" 

Griscom  hesitated,  his  eyes  were  already  wavering, 
and  Marriott  felt  an  irresistible  impulse  to  follow 
them.  Slowly  the  convict's  glance  turned  toward  Ball, 
sitting  low  in  his  chair,  one  leg  hung  over  the  other,  a 
big  foot  dangling  above  the  floor.  His  arm  was  thrust 
straight  out  before  him,  his  hand  grasped  his  cane,  his 
attitude  was  apparently  careless  and  indifferent,  but 
the  knuckles  of  the  hand  that  held  the  cane  were  white, 
and  his  eyes,  peering  from  their  narrow  slits,  were 
fastened  in  a  steady,  compelling  stare  on  Griscom. 
The  convict  looked  an  instant  and  then  he  said,  still 
looking  at  Ball : 

"No,  it  isn't." 

The  convict  had  a  sudden  fit  of  coughing.  He 
fumbled  frantically  in  the  breast  of  his  jacket,  then 
clapped  his  hand  to  his  mouth ;  his  face  was  blue,  his 
eyes  were  staring;  presently  between  his  fingers  there 
trickled  a  thin  bright  stream  of  blood.  Ball  got  up  and 
tenderly  helped  the  convict  from  the  chair  and  the 
court-room.    And  Marriott  knew  that  he  had  lost. 


482   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

Yes,  Marriott  knew  that  he  had  lost  and  he  felt  him- 
self sinking  into  the  lethargy  of  despair.  The  atmos- 
phere of  the  trial  had  become  more  inimical ;  he  found 
it  hard  to  contain  himself,  hard  to  maintain  that  air  of 
unconcern  a  lawyer  must  constantly  affect.  He  found 
it  hard  to  look  at  Eades,  who  seemed  suddenly  to  have 
a  new  buoyancy  of  voice  and  manner.  In  truth,  Eades 
had  been  uncertain  about  Griscom,  but  now  that  the 
convict  had  given  his  testimony  and  all  had  gone  well 
for  Eades  and  his  side,  Eades  was  immensely  relieved. 
He  felt  that  the  turning  point  in  the  great  game  had 
been  passed.  But  it  would  not  do  to  display  any  ela- 
tion; he  must  take  it  all  quite  impersonally,  and  in 
every  way  conduct  himself  as  a  fearless,  disinterested 
official,  and  not  as  a  human  being  at  all.  Eades  felt, 
of  course,  that  this  result  was  due  to  his  own  sagacity, 
his  own  skill  as  a  lawyer,  his  generalship  in  marshal- 
ing his  evidence ;  he  felt  the  crowd  behind  him  to  be 
mere  spectators,  whose  part  it  was  to  look  on  and  ap- 
plaud; he  did  not  know  that  this  result  was  attribu- 
table to  those  mysterious,  transcendental  impulses  of 
the  human  passions,  moving  in  an  irresistible  current, 
sweeping  him  along  and  the  jury  and  the  judge,  and 
bearing  Archie  to  his  doom.  But  Eades  was  so  en- 
couraged that  he  decided  to  call  another  witness  he  had 
been  uncertainly  holding  in  reserve.  He  had  had  his 
doubts  about  this  witness  as  he  had  had  them  about 
Griscom,  but  now  these  doubts  were  swept  away  by 
that  same  occult  force. 

"Swear  Uri  Marsh." 

There  was  the  usual  wait,  the  stillness,  the  suspend- 
ed curiosity,  and  then  Bentley  came  in,  leading  an  old 
man.    This  old  man  was  cleanly  shaven,  his  hair  was 


THE  TURN   OF  THE   BALANCE      483 

white,  and  he  wore  a  new  suit  of  ready-made  clothes. 
The  cheap  and  paltry  garments  seemed  to  shrink  away 
from  the  wasted  form  they  fitted  so  imperfectly, 
grudgingly  lending  themselves,  as  for  this  occasion 
only,  to  the  purpose  of  restoring  and  disguising  their 
disreputable  wearer.  Beneath  them  it  was  quite  easy 
to  detect  the  figure  of  dishonorable  poverty  that  in  an- 
other hour  or  another  day  would  step  out  of  them  and 
resume  its  appropriate  rags  and  tatters,  to  flutter  on 
and  lose  itself  in  the  squalid  streets  of  the  city  where 
it  would  wander  alone,  abandoned  by  all,  even  by  the 
police. 

As  Archie  recognized  this  man,  his  face  went  white 
even  to  the  lips.  Marriott  looked  at  him,  but  the  only 
other  sign  of  feeling  Archie  gave  was  in  the  swelling 
and  tightening  of  the  cords  of  his  neck.  He  swallowed 
as  if  in  pain,  and  seemed  about  to  choke.-  Marriott 
spoke,  but  he  did  not  hear.  Strangely  enough,  it  did 
not  seem  to  Marriott  to  matter. 

This  witness,  like  Griscom,  had  been  a  convict,  like 
Griscom  he  had  known  Archie  in  prison ;  he  and  Archie 
had  been  released  the  same  day,  and  he  had  come  back 
to  town  with  Archie. 

"What  did  he  say?"  the  old  man  was  repeating 
Eades's  question ;  he  always  repeated  each  question  be- 
fore he  answered  it — "what  did  he  say?  Well,  sir,  he 
said,  so  he  did,  he  said  he  was  going  to  kill  a  detective 
here.  That's  what  he  said,  sir.  I  wouldn^t  lie  to  you, 
no,  sir,  not  me — I  wouldn't  lie — ^no,  sir." 

"That  will  do,"  said  Eades.  "Now  tell  us,  Mr. 
Marsh,  what,  if  anything,  Koerner  said  to  Detective 
Quinn  in  your  presence?" 

"What'd  he  say  to  Detective  Quinn?    What'd  he 


484      'I'HE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCfi 

say  to  Detective  Quinn?  Well,  sir,"  the  old  man 
paused  and  spat  out  his  saliva,  **he  said  the  same 
thing." 

*7ust  give  his  words." 

"His  words  ?  Well,  sir,  he  said  he  was  going  to  kill 
that  fellow — that  detective — what's  his  name?  You 
know  his  name." 

The  garrulous  old  fellow  ran  on.  There  was  some- 
thing ludicrous  in  it  all;  the  crowd  became  suddenly 
merry;  it  seemed  to  feel  such  a  gloating  sense  of  tri- 
umph that  it  could  afford  amusement.  The  old  man  in 
the  witness-chair  enjoyed  it  immensely,  he  laughed 
too,  and  spat  and  laughed  again. 

It  was  with  difficulty  that  Marriott  and  Eades  and 
Glassford  got  him  to  recognize  Marriott's  right  to 
cross-examine  him,  and  when  at  last  the  idea  pierced  its 
way  to  his  benumbed  and  aged  mind,  he  hesitated,  as 
the  old  do  before  a  new  impressioil,  and  then  sank  back 
in  his  chair.  His  face  all  at  once  became  impassive, 
almost  imbecile.  And  he  utterly  refused  to  answer  any 
of  Marriott's  questions.  Marriott  put  them  to  him 
again  and  again,  in  the  same  form  and  in  different 
forms,  but  the  old  man  sat  there  and  stared  at  him 
blankly.  Glassford  took  the  witness  in  hand,  finally 
threatened  him  with  imprisonment  for  contempt. 

"Now  you  answer  or  go  to  jail,"  said  Glassford,  with 
the  most  impressive  sternness  he  could  command. 

Then  Marriott  said  again : 

"I  asked  you  where  you  had  been  staying  since  you 
came  to  town  and  who  provided  for  you  ?" 

The  old  man  looked  at  him  an  instant,  a  peculiar 
cunning  stole  gradually  into  his  swimming  eyes,  and 
then  slowly  he  lifted  his  right  hand  to  his  face.    His 


THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE      485 

middle  finger  was  missing,  and  thrusting  the  stump 
beneath  his  nose,  he  placed  his  Index  finger  to  his 
right  eye,  his  third  finger  to  his  left,  drew  down  the 
lower  lids  until  their  red  linings  were  revealed,  and 
then  he  wiggled  his  thumb  and  little  finger. 

The  court-room  burst  Into  a  roar,  the  laughter 
pealed  and  echoed  In  the  high-ceiled  room,  even  the 
jurymen,  save  Broad  well,  permitted  themselves  wary 
smiles.  The  bailiff  sprang  up  and  pounded  with  his 
gavel,  and  Glassford,  his  face  red  with  fury,  shouted : 

*'Mr.  Sheriff,  take  the  witness  to  jail!  And  if  this 
demonstration  does  not  Instantly  cease,  clear  the  court- 
room !" 

The  contretemps  completed  Marriott's  sense  of  utter 
humiliation  and  defeat.  As  if  it  were  not  enough  to  be 
beaten,  he  now  suffered  the  chagrin  of  having  been 
made  ridiculous.  He  was  oblivious  to  everything  but 
his  own  misery  and  discomfiture;  he  forgot  even 
Archie.  Bentley  and  a  deputy  were  hustling  the  of- 
fending old  man  from  the  court-room,  and  he  shambled 
between  them  loosely,  grotesquely,  presenting  the  mis- 
erable, demoralizing  and  pathetic  spectacle  that  age 
always  presents  when  it  has  dishonored  itself. 

As  they  were  dragging  the  old  man  past  Archie,  his 
feet  scuffling  and  dragging  like  those  of  a  paralytic, 
Archie  spoke : 

"Why,  Dad!"  he  said. 

In  his  tone  were  all  disappointment  and  reproach. 

The  Incident  was  over,  but  try  as  they  would,  Glass- 
ford,  Eades,  Lamborn,  Marriott,  all  the  attaches  and 
officials  of  the  court  could  not  restore  to  the  tribunal 
its  lost  dignity.  This  awesome  and  imposing  structure 
mankind  has  been  ^ges  in  rearing,  this  institution  men 


486   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

had  thought  to  make  something  more  than  themselves, 
at  the  grotesque  gesture  of  one  of  its  poorest,  meanest, 
oldest  and  most  miserable  victims,  had  suddenly  col- 
lapsed, disintegrated  into  its  mere  human  entities.  Un- 
consciously this  aged  imbecile  had  taken  a  supreme 
and  mighty  revenge  on  the  institution  that  had  bereft 
him  of  his  reason  and  his  life;  it  could  not  resist  the 
shock;  it  must  pause  to  reconstruct  itself,  to  resume 
its  lost  prestige,  and  men  were  glad  when  Glassford, 
with  what  solemnity  he  could  command,  told  the  bailiff 
to  adjourn  court. 


XVII 

At  six  o'clock  on  the  evening  of  the  day  the  State 
rested,  Marriott  found  himself  once  more  at  the  jail. 
He  passed  the  series  of  grated  cells  from  which  their 
inmates  peered  with  the  wistful  look  common  to  pris- 
oners, and  paused  before  Archie's  door.  He  could  see 
only  the  boy's  muscular  back  bowed  over  the  tiny  table, 
slowly  dipping  chunks  of  bread  into  his  pan  of  mo- 
lasses, eating  his  supper  silently  and  humbly.  The  fig- 
ure was  intensely  pathetic  to  Marriott.  He  gazed  a 
moment  in  the  regret  with  which  one  gazes  on  the  dead, 
struck  down  in  an  instant  by  some  useless  accident. 
"And  yet,"  he  thought,  "it  is  not  done,  there  is  still 
hope.    He  must  be  saved !" 

"Hello,  Archie !"  he  said,  forcing  a  cheerful  tone. 

Archie  started,  pushed  back  his  chair,  drew  his  hand 
across  his  mouth  to  wipe  away  the  crumbs,  and  thrust 
it  through  the  bars. 

"Don't  let  me  keep  you  from  your  supper,"  said 
Marriott. 

Archie  smiled  a  wan  smile. 

"That's  all  right,"  he  said.  "It  isn't  much  of  a  sup- 
per, and  I  ain't  exactly  hungry." 

Archie  grasped  the  bars  above  his  head  and  leaned 
his  breast  against  the  door. 

"Well,  what  do  you  think  of  it,  Mr.  Marriott  ?" 

"I  don't  know,  Archie." 

"Looks  as  if  I  was  the  fall  guy  all  right," 
487. 


488   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

Marriott  bit  his  lip. 

"We  have  to  put  in  our  evidence  in  the  morning,  you 
know." 

"Yes." 

"And  we  must  decide  whether  you're  going  on  the 
stand  or  not." 

"I'll  leave  it  to  you,  Mr.  Marriott." 

Marriott  thought  a  moment. 

"What  do  you  think  about  it  ?"  he  asked  presently. 

"I  don't  know.    You  see,  I've  got  a  record." 

"Yes,  but  they  already  know  you've  been  in  prison." 

"Sure,  but  my  taking  the  stand  would  make  the  rap 
harder.    That  fellow  Eades  would  tear  me  to  pieces." 

Marriott  was  silent. 

"And  then  that  old  hixer  on  the  jury,  that  wise  guy 
up  there  in  the  corner."  Archie  shook  his  head  in  de- 
spair. "Every  time  he  pikes  me  off,  I  know  he's  ready 
to  hand  it  all  to  me." 

"You  mean  Broadwell?" 

"Yes.  He's  one  of  those  church-members.  That's 
a  bad  sign,  a  bad  sign."  Archie  shook  his  head  sadly. 
"No,  it's  a  kangaroo  all  right,  they're  going  to  job 
me."  Archie  hung  his  head.  "Of  course,  Mr.  Mar- 
riott, I  know  you've  done  your  best.  You're  the  only 
friend  I  got,  and  I  wish — I  wish  there  was  some  way 
for  me  to  pay  you.  I  can't  promise  you,  like  some  of 
these  guys,  that  I'll  work  and  pay  you  when  I  get — " 
He  looked  up  with  a  sadly  humorous  and  appreciative 
smile.    "Of  course,  I—" 

"Don't,  Archie!"  said  Marriott.  "Don't  talk  that 
way.  That  part  of  it's  all  right.  Cheer  up,  my  boy, 
cheer  up!"  Marriott  was  trying  so  hard  to  cheer  up 
himself.    "We  haven't  played  our  hand  yet ;  we'll  give 


THE  TURN   OF  THE   BALANCE  ^  489 

'em  a  fight.  There  are  higher  courts,  and  there's  al- 
ways the  governor." 

ArQhie  shook  his  head. 

"Maybe  you  won't  beheve  me,  Mr.  Marriott,  but  I'd 
rather  go  to  the  chair  than  take  Hfe  down  there.  You 
don't  know  what  that  place  is,  Mr.  Marriott." 

"No,"  said  Marriott,  "but  I  can  imagine." 

Then  he  changed  his  tone. 

"We-'ve  plenty  of  time  to  talk  about  all  that,"  he  went 
on.  "Now  we  must  talk  about  to-morrow.  Look  here, 
Archie.  Why  can't  you  go  on  the  stand  and  tell  your 
whole  story — ^just  as  you've  told  it  to  me  a  hundred 
times  ?  It  convinced  me  the  first  time  I  heard  it ;  may- 
be it  would  convince  the  jury.  They'd  see  that  you  had 
cause  to  kill  Kouka !" 

"Cause!"  exclaimed  the  boy.  "Great  God!  After 
the  way  he  hounded  me — I  should  say  so !  Why,  Mr. 
Marriott,  he  made  me  do  it,  he  made  me  what  I  am. 
Don't  you  see  that  ?" 

"Of  course  I  do.  And  why  can't  you  tell  them  so  ?" 
Marriott  was  enthusiastic  with  his  new  hope. 

"Oh,  well,"  said  Archie  with  no  enthusiasm  at  all, 
"with  you  it's  different.  You  look  at  things  different ; 
you  can  see  things ;  you  know  there's  some  good  in  me, 
don't  you?" 

It  was  an  appeal  that  touched  Marriott,  and  yet  he 
felt  powerless  to  make  the  boy  see  how  deeply  it 
touched  him. 

"And  then,"  Archie  went  on — he  talked  with  an  in- 
tense earnestness  and  he  leaned  so  close  that  Marriott 
could  smell  the  odor  of  coffee  on  his  breath — "when  I 
talk  to  you,  I  know  somehow  that — well — you  believe 
me,  and  we're  sitting  down,  just  talking  together  with 


490   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

no  one  else  around.  But  there  in  that  court-room,  with 
all  those  people  ready  to  tear  my  heart  out  and  eat  it, 
and  the  beak — Glassford,  I  mean — ^and  the  blokes  in 
the  box,  and  Eades  ready  to  twist  everything  I  say; 
well,  what  show  have  I  got  ?  You  can  see  for  yourself, 
Mr.  Marriott." 

Archie  spread  his  hands  wide  to  show  the  hopeless- 
ness of  it  all. 

"Well,  I  think  you'd  better  try,  anyhow.  Will  you 
think  it  over  ?" 


XVIII 

Marriott  heard  the  commotion  as  he  entered  the  ele- 
vator the  next  morning,  and  as  the  cage  ascended,  the 
noise  increased.  He  heard  the  chck  of  heels,  the  scuff 
of  damp  soles  on  the  marble,  and  then  the  growl  of 
many  men,  angry,  beside  themselves,  possessed  by  their 
lower  natures.  The  chorus  of  rough  voices  had  lost 
its  human  note  and  sunk  to  the  ugly  register  of  the 
brutish.  Drawing  nearer,  he  distinguished  curses  and 
desperate  cries.  And  there  in  the  half-light  at  the  end 
of  the  long  corridor,  the  crowd  swayed  this  way  and 
that,  struggling,  scrambling,  fighting.  Hats  were 
knocked  off  and  spun  in  the  air ;  now  and  then  an  arm 
was  lifted  out  of  the  mass ;  now  and  then  a  white  fist 
was  shaken  above  the  huddle  of  heads.  Two  deputy 
sheriffs,  Hersch  and  Cumrow,  were  flattened  against 
the  doors  of  the  criminal  court,  their  faces  trickling 
with  sweat,  their  waistcoats  torn  open;  and  they 
strained  mightily.  The  crowd  surged  against  them, 
threatening  to  press  the  breath  out  of  their  bodies. 
They  paused,  panting  from  their  efforts,  then  tried 
again  to  force  back  the  crowd,  shouting : 
"Get  back  there,  damn  you !  Get  back !" 
Marriott  slipped  through  a  side  door  into  the  judge's 
chamber.  The  room  was  filled.  Glassford,  Eades, 
Lamborn,  all  the  attaches  of  the  court  were  there. 
Bentley,  the  sheriff,  had  flung  up  a  window,  and  stood 
there  fanning  himself  with  his  broad-brimmed  hat,  dis- 

491 


492      THE  TURN,  OF  THE  BALANCE 

regardlngf  exposure,  his  breatH  floating  in  vapor  out  o£ 
the  window.  On  the  low  leather  lounge  where  Glass- 
ford  took  his  naps  sat  Archie  close  beside  Danner. 
When  he  saw  Marriott  a  wan  smile  came  to  his  white 
face. 

"They  tried  to  get  at  me !"  The  phrase  seemed  suf- 
ficient to  him  to  explain  it  all,  and  at  the  same  time  to 
express  his  own  surprise  and  consternation  in  it  all. 

"They  tried  to  get  at  me!"  Archie  repeated  in  an- 
other tone,  expressing  another  meaning,  another  sen- 
sation, a  wholly  different  thought.  The  boy's  lips  were 
drawn  tightly  across  his  teeth ;  he  shook  with  fear. 

"They  tried  to  get  at  me!"  he  repeated,  in  yet  an- 
other tone. 

Old  Doctor  Bitner,  the  jail  physician,  had  come 
with  a  tumbler  half-full  of  whisky  and  water. 

"Here,  Archie,"  he  said,  "try  a  sip  of  this.  You'll 
he  all  right  in  a  minute." 

"He's  collapsed,"  the  physician  whispered  to  Mar- 
riott, as  Archie  snatched  the  glass  and  gulped  down  the 
whisky,  making  a  wry  face,  and  shuddering  as  if  the 
stuff  sickened  him. 

"I'm  all  in,  Mr.  Marriott,"  said  Archie.  "I've  gone 
to  pieces.  I'm  down  and  out.  It's  no  use."  He  hung 
his  head,  as  if  ashamed  of  his  weakness. 

"Well,  you  know,  my  boy,  that  we  must  begin.  It's 
up  to  us  now.    Can  you  take  the  stand  ?" 

"No !  No !"  Archie  shook  his  head  with  emphasis. 
"I  can't!  I  can't!  That  fellow  Eades  would  tear  me 
to  pieces !" 

Marriott  argued,  expostulated,  pleaded,  but  in  vain. 
The  boy  only  shook  his  head  and  said  over  and  over, 
each  time  with  a  new  access  of  terror : 


•       THE   TURN   of:  THE   BALANCE      493 

"No,  Eades  would  tear  me  to  pieces." 
"Come  on,  Gordon,"  called  Glassford,  who  had  fin- 
ished his  cigar,  "we  can't  wait  any  longer." 

The  following  morning,  the  defense  having  put  in  its 
evidence  and  rested,  Lamborn  began  the  opening  argu- 
ment for  the  State.  It  had  long  been  Lamborn's  ambi- 
tion to  make  a  speech  that  would  last  a  whole  day.  He 
had  made  copious  notes,  and  when  he  succeeded  in 
speaking  a  full  half-hour  without  referring  to  them, 
he  was  greatly  encouraged.  When  he  was  compelled 
finally  to  succumb,  and  consult  his  notes,  he  began  to 
review  the  evidence,  that  is,  he  repeated  what  the  wit- 
nesses had  already  told.  After  that  he  began  to  fail  no- 
ticeably in  ideas  and  frequently  glanced  at  the  clock,  but 
he  thought  of  the  statutes,  and  he  read  to  the  jury  the 
laws  defining  murder  in  the  first  degree,  murder  in  the 
second  degree,  and  manslaughter,  and  then  declaring 
that  the  crime  Archie  had  committed  was  clearly  mur- 
der in  the  first  degree,  he  closed  by  urging  the  jury  to 
find  him  guilty  of  this  crime. 

In  the  afternoon  Pennell  opened  the  arguments  for 
the  defense.  Having  won  the  oratorical  contest  at  col- 
lege, and  having  once  been  spoken  of  in  print  as  the 
silver-tongued,  Pennell  pitched  his  voice  in  the  highest 
key,  and  soon  filled  the  court-room  with  a  prodigious 
noise ;  he  had  not  spoken  fifteen  minutes  before  he  had 
lashed  himself  into  a  fury,  and  with  each  new,  fresh 
burst  of  enthusiasm,  he  raised  his  hoarse  voice  higher 
and  higher,  until  the  throats  of  his  hearers  ached  in 
sympathy.  But  at  the  end  of  two  hours  he  ceased  to 
wave  his  arms,  no  longer  struck  the  bar  of  the  jury- 
box  with  his  fist,  the  strain  died  away,  and  he  sank  into 


494   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

his  chair,  his  hair  disheveled,  his  brow  and  neck  and 
wrists  ghstening  with  perspiration,  utterly  exhausted, 
but  still  wearing  the  oratorical  scowl. 

All  this  time  Eades  and  Marriott  were  lying  back  in 
their  chairs,  in  the  attitudes  of  counsel  who  are  reserv- 
ing themselves  for  the  great  and  telling  efforts  of  the 
trial,  that  is,  the  closing  arguments.  When  Marriott 
arose  the  next  morning  to  begin  his  address,  the  si- 
lence was  profound.  He  looked  about  him,  at  Glass- 
ford,  at  Eades,  at  the  crowd,  straining  with  curious, 
gleaming  eyes.  In  the  overflowing  line  of  men  within 
the  bar  on  either  side  of  the  jury-box  he  recognized 
several  lawyers ;  their  faces  were  white  against  the 
wall;  they  seemed  strange,  unnatural,  out  of  place. 
The  jury  were  uneasy  and  glanced  away,  and  though 
Broadwell  lifted  his  small  eyes  to  him,  it  was  without 
response  or  sympathy.  Marriott  was  chilled  by  the 
patent  opposition.  Then,  somehow,  he  detected  old 
man  Reder  stealing  a  glance  at  Archie ;  he  kept  his  eye 
on  Reder.  What  was  Reder  thinking  of  ?  "Thinking, 
I  suppose,"  thought  Marriott,  "that  this  settles  it,  and 
that  there  is  nothing  to  do  now  but  to  send  Archie  to 
the  chair." 

Reder,  however,  in  that  moment  was  really  think- 
ing of  his  boyhood  in  Germany,  where  his  father  had 
been  a  judge  like  Glassford;  one  day  he  had  found 
among  the  papers  on  his  father's  desk  the  statement 
of  a  case.  An  old  peasant  had  accidentally  set  fire  to 
a  forest  on  an  estate  and  burned  up  wood  to  the  value 
of  forty  marks,  for  this  he  was  being  tried.  He  felt 
sorry  for  the  peasant  and  had  begged  his  father  to  let 
him  go.  When  he  came  home  at  night  he  asked  his 
father — 


THE   TURN   OF  THE   BALANCE      495 

Marriott  made  an  effort,  mastered  himself;  he 
thought  of  Archie,  leaning  forward  eagerly,  his  eyes 
fixed  on  him  with  their  last  hope.  He  had  a  vision  of 
Archie  as  he  had  seen  him  in  the  jail — he  saw  again 
the  supple  play  of  his  muscles  under  the  white  skin  of 
his  breast,  full  of  health,  of  strength,  of  life — ^kill  him  ? 
It  was  monstrous !  A  passion  swelled  within  him ;  he 
would  speak  for  him,  he  would  speak  for  old  man 
Koerner,  for  Gusta,  for  all  the  voiceless,  submerged 
poor  in  the  world.  .  .  .  He  began.  .  .  .  Some  one 
was  sobbing.  ...  He  glanced  about.  It  was  old 
Mrs.  Koerner,  in  tears,  the  first  she  had  shed  during  the 
trial.  .  .  .  Archie  was  looking  at  her.  .  ,  .  He 
was  making  an  effort,  but  tears  were  glistening  in  the 
corners  of  his  eyes.    .    .    . 

It  was  over  at  last.  He  had  done  all  he  could.  Men 
were  crowding  about  him,  congratulating  him — Pen- 
nell,  Bentley,  his  friends  among  the  lawyers,  Gfass- 
ford,  and,  yes,  even  Eades. 

"I  never  heard  you  do  better,  Gordon,"  said  Eades. 

Marriott  thanked  him.  But  then  Eades  could  al- 
ways be  depended  on  to  do  the  correct  thing. 

All  that  afternoon  Archie  sat  there  and  listened  to 
Eades  denouncing  him.  When  Marriott  had  finished 
his  speech,  Archie  had  felt  a  happiness  and  a  hope — 
but  now  there  was  no  hope.  Eades  was,  indeed,  tear- 
ing him  to  pieces.  How  long  must  he  sit  there  and  be 
game,  and  endure  this  thing?  Would  it  never  end? 
Could  Eades  speak  on  for  ever  and  for  ever  and  never 
cease  his  abuse  and  denunciation?  Would  it  end  with 
evening — if  evening  ever  came?  No;  evening  came, 
but  Eades  had  not  finished.    Morning  came,  and  Eades 


496   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

spoke  on  and  on.  He  was  speaking  some  strange 
words;  they  sounded  like  the  words  the  mission  stiffs 
used ;  they  must  be  out  of  the  Bible.  He  noticed  that 
Broadwell  was  very  attentive. 

"He'll  soon  be  done  now,  Archie,"  whispered  Mar- 
riott, giving  him  a  little  pat  on  the  knee ;  ''when  they 
quote  Scripture,  that's  a  sign — " 

Yes,  he  had  finished ;  this  was  all ;  soon  it  would  be 
over  and  he  would  know. 

The  jurymen  were  moving  in  their  seats;  but  there 
was  yet  more  to  be  done.  The  judge  must  deliver  his 
charge,  and  the  jurors  settled  down  again  to  listen  to 
Glassford  with  even  greater  respect  than  they  had 
shown  Eades. 

During  the  closing  sentences  of  Eades's  speech 
Glassford  had  drawn  some  papers  from  a  drawer  and 
arranged  them  on  his  desk.  These  papers  contained 
portions  of  charges  he  had  made  in  other  criminal  cases. 
Glassford  motioned  to  the  bailiff,  who  bore  him  a  glass 
of  iced  water,  from  which  Glassford  took  a  sip  and 
set  it  before  him,  as  if  he  would  need  it  and  find  it 
useful  in  making  his  charge.  Then  he  took  off  his 
gold  eye-glasses,  raised  his  eyebrows  two  or  three 
times,  drew  out  a  large  handkerchief  and  began  polish- 
ing his  glasses  as  if  that  were  the  most  important  busi- 
ness of  his  life.  He  breathed  on  the  lenses,  then  pol- 
ished them,  then  breathed  again,  and  polished  again. 

Glassford  had  selected  those  portions  of  the  charges 
he  kept  in  stock,  which  assured  the  jury  of  the  great- 
ness of  the  English  law,  told  how  they  must  consider 
a  man  innocent  until  he  had  been  proved  guilty  beyond 
a  reasonable  doubt,  that  they  must  not  draw  any  con- 
clusions unfavorable  to  the  prisoner  at  the  bar  from 


JHE  TURN,  of:  JHE   BALANCE      497 

the  fact  that  he  had  not  taken  the  witness-stand,  and 
so  on.  These  instructions  were  written  in  long,  in- 
volved sentences,  composed  as  nearly  as  possible  of 
words  of  Latin  derivation.  Glassford  read  them  slow- 
ly, but  so  as  to  give  the  impression  that  it  was  an  ex- 
temporaneous production. 

The  jurymen,  though  many  of  them  did  not  know 
the  meaning  of  the  words  Glassford  used,  thought  they 
all  sounded  ominous  and  portentous,  and  seemed  to 
suggest  Archie's  guilt  very  strongly.  For  half  an  hour 
Glassford  read  from  his  instructions,  from  the  indict- 
ment and  from  the  statutes,  then  suddenly  recalling 
the  fact  that  the  public  was  greatly  interested  in  this 
case,  he  began  to  talk  of  the  heinousness  of  this  form 
of  crime  and  the  sacredness  of  human  life.  In  im- 
agination he  could  already  see  the  editorials  that  would 
be  printed  in  the  newspapers,  praising  him  for  his 
stand,  and  this,  he  reflected,  would  be  beneficial  to  him 
in  his  campaign  for  renomination  and  reelection. 
Finally  he  told  the  jurymen  that  they  must  not  be  af- 
fected by  motives  of  sympathy  or  compassion  or  pity 
for  the  prisoner  at  the  bar  or  his  family,  for  they  had 
nothing  to  do  with  the  punishment  that  would  be  in- 
flicted upon  him.  Then  he  read  the  various  verdicts 
to  them,  casually  mentioning  the  verdict  of  "not 
guilty"  in  the  tone  of  an  after-thought  and  as  a  con- 
tingency not  likely  to  occur,  and  then  told  them,  at 
last,  that  they  could  retire. 

At  five  o'clock  the  jury  stumbled  out  of  the  box  and 
entered  the  little  room  to  the  left. 


It  was  four  o'clock  ir*  the  morning,  and  the  twelve 
men  who  were  to  decide  Archie's  fate  were  still  hud- 
dled in  the  jury  room.  For  eleven  hours  they  had 
been  there,  balloting,  arguing,  disputing,  quarreling, 
and  then  balloting  again.  Time  after  time  young  Men- 
ard had  passed  around  his  hat  for  the  little  scraps  of 
paper,  and  always  the  result  was  the  same,  eleven  for 
conviction,  one  for  acquittal.  For  a  while  after  the 
jury  assembled  there  had  been  three  votes  for  convic- 
tion of  murder  in  the  second  degree,  but  long  ago,  as 
it  seemed  at  that  hour,  these  three  votes  had  been  won 
over  for  conviction  of  murder  in  the  first  degree,  which 
meant  death.  At  two  o'clock  Broadwell  had  declared 
that  there  was  no  use  in  wasting  more  time  in  voting, 
and  for  two  hours  no  ballot  had  been  taken.  The  elec- 
tric lamps  had  glowed  all  night,  filling  the  room  with 
a  fierce  light,  which,  at  this  hour  of  the  winter  morn- 
ing, had  taken  on  an  unnatural  glare.  The  air  was 
vitiated,  and  would  have  sickened  one  coming  from 
outside,  but  these  men,  whose  lungs  had  been  gradu- 
ally accustomed  to  it,  were  not  aware  how  foiil  it  was. 
Once  or  twice  in  the  night  some  one  had  thrown  up  a 
window,  but  the  older  men  had  complained  of  the  cold, 
and  the  window  had  to  be  closed  down  again.  In  that 
air  hung  the  dead  odor  of  tobacco  smoke,  for  in  the 
earlier  hours  of  the  night  most  of  the  men — aU,  indeed, 
save  Broadwell — had  smoked,  some  of  them  cigars, 

498 


THE   TURN   OF   THE   BALANCE      499 

some  pipes.  But  now  they  were  so  steeped  in  bodily 
weariness  and  in  physical  discomfort  and  misery  that 
none  of  them  smoked  any  longer.  On  the  big  oaken  ta- 
ble in  the  middle  of  the  room  Menard's  hat  lay  tilted 
on  its  side,  and  all  about  lay  the  ballots.  Ballots,  too, 
strewed  the  floor  and  filled  the  cuspidors,  little  scraps 
of  paper  on  which  was  scribbled  for  the  most  part  the 
one  word,  "Guilty,"  the  same  word  on  all  of  them, 
though  not  always  spelled  the  same.  One  man  wrote 
it  "Gildy,"  another  "Gilty,"  still  another  "Gility."  But 
among  all  those  scattered  scraps  there  was  a  series  of 
ballots,  the  sight  of  which  angered  eleven  of  the  men, 
and  drove  them  to  profanity ;  on  this  series  of  ballots 
was  written  "Not  guilty."  The  words  were  written  in 
an  invariable,  beautiful  script,  plainly  the  chirography 
of  some  German. 

It  was  evident  that  in  this  barren  room,  with  its 
table  and  twelve  chairs,  its  high  blank  walls  and  lofty 
ceiling,  a  mighty  conflict  had  been  waged.  But  now 
at  the  mystic  hour  when  the  tide  of  human  forces  is 
at  its  farthest  ebb,  the  men  had  become  exhausted,  and 
they  sat  about  in  dejected  attitudes  of  lassitude  and 
weariness,  their  brains  and  souls  benumbed.  Young 
Menard  had  drawn  his  chair  up  to  the  table  and 
thrown  his  head  forward  on  his  arms.  He  was  wholly 
spent,  his  brow  was  bathed  with  clammy  perspiration, 
and  a  nausea  had  seized  him.  His  mind  was  too  tired 
to  work  longer,  and  he  was  only  irritably  conscious  of 
some  unpleasant  interruption  when  any  one  spoke. 
The  old  men  had  suffered  greatly  from  the  confine- 
ment; the  long  night  in  that  miserable  little  room, 
without  comforts,  had  accentuated  their  various  dis- 
eases, all  the  latent  pains  and  aches  of  age  had  beea 


'500      THE   TURN   OF   THE   BALANCE 

awakened,  and  now,  at  this  low  hour,  they  had  lost 
the  sense  of  time  and  place,  the  trial  seemed  far  away 
in  the  past,  there  was  no  future,  and  they  could  but 
sit  there  and  suffer  dumbly.  In  one  corner  Osgood 
had  tilted  back  a  chair  and  fallen  asleep.  He  sprawled 
there,  his  head  fallen  to  one  side,  his  wide-open  mouth 
revealing  his  throat ;  his  face  was  bathed  in  sweat,  and 
he  snored  horribly. 

In  another  corner  sat  Broadwell,  his  hands  folded 
across  his  paunch.  The  flesh  on  his  fat  face  had  dark- 
ened, beneath  his  eyes  were  deep  blue  circles  and  he 
looked  very  old.  He  had  been  elected  foreman,  of 
course,  and  early  in  the  evening  had  made  long  and 
solemn  addresses  to  the  jury,  the  same  kind  of  ad- 
dresses he  delivered  to  his  Bible-class — instructive,  pat- 
ronizing, every  one  of  his  arguments  based  on  some 
hackneyed  and  obvious  moral  premise.  Particularly 
was  this  the  case,  when,  as  had  befallen  early  in  the 
evening,  they  had  discussed  the  death  penalty.  This 
subject  roused  him  to  a  high  degree  of  anger,  and  he 
raged  about  it,  defended  the  practice  of  capital  punish- 
ment, then,  growing  calm,  spoke  of  it  reverently  and 
as  if,  indeed,  it  were  a  sacrament  like  baptism,  or  the 
Lord's  Supper,  quoting  from  the  ninth  chapter  of  Gen- 
esis. Old  Reder  had  opposed  him,  and  Broadwell  had 
demanded  of  him  to  know  what  he  would  wish  to  have 
done  to  a  man  who  killed  his  wife,  for  instance.  Reder, 
quite  insensible  to  the  tribute  implied  in  the  sugges- 
tion that  his  action  would  furnish  the  standard  for  all 
action  in  such  an  emergency,  had  for  a  while  main- 
tained that  he  would  not  wish  to  have  the  man  put  to 
death,  but  Broadwell  had  insisted  that  he  would,  had 


THE   TURN   of:   THE   BALANCE       501 

quoted  the  ninth  chapter  of  Genesis  again,  shaken  his  ' 
head,  puffed,  and  angrily  turned  away  from  Reder. 
One  by  one  he  had  beaten  down  the  wills  of  the  other 
jurors.  He  was  tenacious  and  stubborn,  and  he  had 
conquered  them  all — all  but  old  Reder,  who  paced  the 
floor,  his  hands  in  the  side  pockets  of  his  short  jacket. 
His  shaggy  white  brows  were  knit  in  a  permanent 
scowl,  and  now  and  then  he  gathered  portions  of  his 
gray  beard  into  his  mouth  and  chewed  savagely.  He 
was  the  one,  of  course,  who  had  been  voting  for  ac- 
quittal ;  his  was  the  hand  that  had  written  in  that  Con- 
tinental script  those  dissenting  words,  "Not  guilty." 

When  this  became  known,  the  others  had  gathered 
round  him,  trying  to  beat  him  down,  and  finally,  giving 
way  to  anger,  had  shaken  their  fists  in  his  face,  reviled 
him,  and  called  him  ugly  names.  But  all  the  while  he 
had  shaken  his  head  and  shouted : 

"No!  no!  no!  nor 

For  a  while  he  had  argued  against  Archie's  guilt, 
then  against  the  methods  of  the  police,  at  last,  had 
begged  for  mercy  on  the  boy.  But  this  last  appeal  only 
made  them  angry. 

"Mercy !"  they  said.  "Did  he  show  that  old  woman 
any  mercy  ?" 

"He  isn't  being  triedt  for  der  old  woman,"  said  Re- 
der.  "Dot's  what  the  chudge  saidt." 

"Well,  then.    Did  he  show  Kouka  any  mercy  ?" 

"Bah!"  shouted  Reder.  "Did  Kouka  show  him 
any?" 

"But  Kouka"— they  insisted. 

"Ach!  To  hell  mit  all  0'  you !"  cried  Reder,  and  be- 
gan to  stalk  the  floor. 


502   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

"The  Dutch  dog  I"  said  one. 

'The  stubborn  brute !"  grumbled  another.  "Keeping 
us  all  up  here,  and  making  us  lose  our  sleep !" 

"I  tell  you,"  said  another,  "the  jury  system  ought  to 
be  changed,  so's  a  majority  would  rule !" 

"It's  no  use,  it's  no  use,"  Reder  said  in  a  higK  petu- 
lant voice;  "you  only  make  me  vorse;  you  only  make 
me  vorse!"  He  held  his  hands  up  and  shook  them 
loosely,  his  fingers  vibrating  with  great  rapidity. 

Then  it  was  still  for  a  long  while — but  in  the  dark  and 
empty  court-room,  where  the  bailiff  slept  on  one  of  the 
seats,  sharp,  unnatural,  cracking  noises  were  heard  now 
and  then ;  and  from  it  emanated  the  strange  weird  in- 
fluence of  the  night  and  darkness.  Through  the  win- 
dow they  looked  on  the  court-house  yard  lying  cold  and 
white  under  the  blaze  of  the  electric  lamps.  The  wind 
swept  down  the  bleak  deserted  street.  Once  they  heard 
a  policeman's  whistle.  Osgood  was  snoring  loudly. 

"Great  God!"  shouted  Duncan  irritably.  "Can't 
some  of  you  make  him  stop  that  ?" 

Church  got  up  and  gave  Osgood's  chair  a  rude  kick. 

"Huh?"  Osgood  started  up,  staring  about  wildly. 
Then  he  came  to  his  senses,  looked  around,  understood, 
fell  back  and  went  to  sleep  again. 

And  Reder  tramped  up  and  down,  and  Broadwell 
sat  and  glared  at  him,  and  the  others  waited.  Reder 
was  thinking  of  that  time  of  his  boyhood  in  Germany 
when  the  old  peasant  had  been  tried  for  setting  the 
wood  afire.  The  whole  scene  had  come  back  to  him, 
and  he  found  a  fascination  in  recalling  one  by  one 
every  detail,  until  each  stood  out  vividly  and  distinctly 
in  his  mind.  He  paced  on,  until,  after  a  while.  Broad- 
well  spoke  again. 


THE  TURN   OF  THE  BALANCE      503 

"Mr.  Recler/'  he  said,  "I  don*t  see  how  you  can  as- 
sume the  position  you  do." 

"It's  no  use,  I  tol'  you ;  no  use !" 

"But  look  here,"  Broadwell  insisted,  getting  up  and 
trying  to  stop  Reder.  He  took  him  by  the  lapel  of  his 
coat,  forced  him  to  stand  an  instant,  and  when  Reder 
yielded,  and  stood  still,  the  other  jurors  looked  up  with 
some  hope. 

"Tell  me  why—" 

"I  don't  vant  to  have  him  killedt,  I  tol'  you," 

"But  it  isn't  killing ;  it  isn't  the  same." 

"Bah !    Nonsense !"  roared  Reder. 

"It's  the  law." 

"I  don't  gare  for  der  law.  We  say  he  don't  die — he 
don't  die  den,  ain't  it?" 

"But  it's  the  law!"  protested  Broadwell,  thinking  to 
add  new  stress  to  his  argument  by  placing  new  stress 
on  the  word.    "How  can  we  do  otherwise  ?" 

"How  ?    Chust  by  saying  not  guildy,  dot's  how." 

"But  how  can  we  do  that  ?" 

"Chust  do  it,  dot's  how !" 

"But  it's  the  /aw,— the  lawT 

"Damn  der  lawT  roared  Reder,  resuming  his  walk. 
And  Broadwell  stood  looking  at  him,  in  horror,  as  if 
he  had  blasphemed. 

There  was  silence  again,  save  for  Osgood's  snoring. 
Then  suddenly,  no  one  knew  how,  the  argument  broke 
out  anew. 

"How  do  we  know  ?"  some  one  was  saying.  It  was 
Grey ;  his  conviction  was  shaken  again. 

"Know?"  said  Church.    "Don't  we  know?" 

"How  do  we?" 

"Well— I  don't  know,  only—" 


504      THE  TURN   OF!  THE   BALANCE' 

"Yes,  only." 

"You  ain't  going  back  on  us  now,  I  Hope?"^ 

"No,  but — "    Grey  shook  his  head. 

"Well,  you  heard  what  the  judge  said." 

They  could  always  appeal  to  what  the  judge  had 
said,  as  if  he  spoke  with  some  authority  that  was  above 
all  others. 

"What'd  he  say?"  asked  Grey. 

"Why — ^he  said — what  was  that  there  word  now  ?" 

"What  word?" 

"That  word  he  used — refer — no  that  wasn't  it,  let's 
see." 

"Infer  ?"  suggested  Broadwell. 

"Sure!    That's  it!    Infer!    He  said  infer."  ^ 

"By  God !   I  guess  that's  right !    He  did  say  that."    ' 

"Course,"  Church  went  on  triumphantly.  "Infer! 
He  said  infer,  and  that  means  we  can  infer  it,  don't  it  ?" 

Just  at  that  minute  a  pain,  sharp  and  piercing,  shot 
through  Reder's  back.  He  winced,  made  a  wry  face, 
stopped,  stooped  to  a  senile  posture  and  clapped  his 
hand  to  his  back.  His  heart  suddenly  sank — ^there  it 
was  again,  his  old  trouble.  That  meant  bad  things  for 
him ;  now,  as  likely  as  not,  he'd  be  laid  up  all  winter ; 
probably  he  couldn't  sit  on  the  jury  any  more ;  surely 
not  if  that  old  trouble  came  back  on  him.  And  how 
would  he  and  his  old  wife  get  through  the  winter? 
Instantly  he  forgot  everything  else.  What  time  was 
it,  he  wondered?  This  being  up  all  night;  he  could 
not  stand  that. 

As  from  a  distance  he  heard  the  argument  going  on. 
At  first  he  felt  no  relation  to  it,  but  this  question  must 
be  settled  some  way.  The  pain  had  ceased,  but  it 
.would  come  back  again.  He  straightened  up  slowly, 
'graduall;)^,  with  extreme  care,  his  hand  poised  in  readi- 


THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE     T505 

ness  to  clap  to  his  back  again ;  He  turned  about  by  mi- 
nute degrees  and  said : 

"What's  dot  you  saidt?" 

"Why,"  began  Church,  but  just  then  Reder  winced 
again;  clapped  his  hand  to  his  back,  doubled  up,  his 
face  was  contorted.  He  was  evidently  suffering  tor- 
tures, but  he  made  no  outcry.  Church  sprang  toward 
him. 

"Get  him  some  water, — here !" 

Chisholm  punched  young  Menard;  he  got  up,  and 
pushed  the  big  white  porcelain  water  pitcher  across 
the  table.    But  Reder  waved  it  aside. 

"Nefer  mind,"  he  said.  "What  was  dot  you  vas 
sayin'  a  minute  back  ?" 

"Why,  Mr.  Reder,  we  said  the  judge  said  we  could 
infer.    Don't  you  remember  ?" 

Church  looked  into  his  face  Hopefully,  and  waited. 

Broadwell  got  slowly  to  his  feet,  and  moved  toward 
the  little  group  deliberately,  importantly,  as  if  he  alone 
could  explain. 

"Here,  have  my  chair,  Mr.  Reder,"  said  Broadwell 
with  intense  politeness. 

"No,  nefer  mind,"  said  Reder^  afraid  to  move. 

"What  the  judge  said,"  Broadwell  began,  "was  sim- 
ply this.  He  said  that  if  it  was  to  be  inferred  from  all 
the  facts  and  circumstances  adduced  in  evidence — " 

"Besides,"  Church  broke  in,  "that  old  woman  said 
he  was  the  fellow,  down  at  the  police  station — it  was 
in  the  paper,  don't  you  remember  ?" 

"Oh,  but  the  judge  said  we  wasn't  to  pay  attention 
to  anything  like  that,"  said  Grey. 

"Well,  but  he  said  we  could  infer,  didn't  he  ?" 

"Just  let  me  speak,  please,"  insisted  Broadwell. 
"His  Honor  went  on  to  say — "  he  had  just  recalled 


5o6   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

that  that  was  the  proper  way  to  speak  of  a  judge,  and 
then,  the  next  instant,  he  remembered  that  it  was  also 
proper  to  call  the  judge  "the  Court,"  and  he  was  anx- 
ious to  use  both  of  these  phrases.  "That  is,  the  Court 
said — "  And  he  explained  the  meaning  of  the  word 
"infer." 

Reder  was  listening  attentively,  his  head  bent,  his 
hand  resting  on  his  hip.  Broadwell  talked  on,  in  his 
low  insinuating  tone.  Reder  made  no  reply.  After  a 
while,  Broadwell,  his  eyes  narrowing,  said  softly,  gen- 
tly: 

"Gentlemen,  shall  we  not  try  another  ballot?" 
Menard  got  up  wearily,  his  hat  in  readiness  again. 
The  jurors  began  rummaging  among  the  scraps  for 
ballots. 

A  street-car  was  just  scraping  around  the  curve  at 
the  corner,  its  wheels  sending  out  a  shrill,  grinding 
noise. 

"Great  heavens !"  exclaimed  McCann,  taking  out  his 
watch,  "it's  five  thirty!  Morning!  WeVe  been  here 
all  night!" 

Outside  the  city  was  still  wrapped  in  a  soft  thick 
darkness.  Eades  was  sleeping  soundly;  his  mother, 
when  she  kissed  him  good  night,  had  patted  his  head, 
saying,  "My  dear,  brave  boy."  Marriott  had  just  sunk 
into  a  troubled  doze.  Glassford  was  snoring  loudly  in 
his  warm  chamber;  Koerner  and  his  wife  were  kneel- 
ing on  their  bed,  their  hands  clasped,  saying  a  prayer 
in  German,  and  over  in  the  jail,  Archie  was  standing 
with  his  face  pressed  against  the  cold  bars  of  his  cell, 
looking  out  across  the  corridor,  watching  for  the  first 
streak  of  dawn. 


XX 


Marriott  awoke  with  a  start  when  the  summons 
came.  The  jury  had  agreed ;  his  heart  leaped  into  his 
throat.  What  was  the  verdict?  He  had  a  confused 
sense  of  the  time,  the  world  outside  was  dark;  he 
could  have  slept  but  a  few  minutes,  surely  it  was  not 
much  later  than  midnight.  He  switched  on  the  elec- 
tric light,  and  looked  at  his  watch.  It  was  half-past 
six — ^morning.    He  dressed  hurriedly,  and  went  out. 

The  clammy  air  smote  him  coldly.  The  day  was 
just  breaking,  a  yellow  haze  above  the  roofs  toward 
the  east.  He  hurried  along  the  damp  pavement,  an 
eager  lonely  figure  in  the  silent  streets  ;  the  light  spread 
gradually,  creeping  as  it  were  through  the  heavy  air ; 
a  fog  rolled  over  the  pavements  and  the  world  was 
cold  and  gray.  An  early  street-car  went  clanging  past, 
filled  with  working-men.  These  working-men  were 
happy;  they  smoked  their  pipes  and  joked — Marriott 
could  hear  them,  and  he  thought  it  strange  that  men 
could  be  happy  anywhere  in  the  world  that  morning. 
But  these  fancies  were  not  to  be  indulged  with  the 
leisurely  sense  in  which  he  usually  philosophized 
on  that  life  of  which  he  was  so  conscious;  for 
the  court-house  loomed  huge  and  portentous  in  the 
dawn.  And  suddenly  the  light  that  was  slowly  suffus- 
ing the  ether  seemed  to  pause ;  there  was  a  hesitation 
almost  perceptible  to  the  eye  in  the  descent  of  morning 
on  the  world ;  it  was,  to  Marriott's  imagination,  exactly 

507 


5o8      THE   TURN   OF,  THE  BALANCE 

as  if  the  sun  had  suddenly  concluded  to  shine  no  longer 
on  the  just  and  the  unjust  alike,  but  would  await  the 
issue  then  yeaning  beneath  that  brooding  dome,  and 
see  whether  men  would  do  justice  in  the  world.  Some- 
where, Marriott  knew,  in  that  gray  and  smoky  pile,  the 
fate  was  waiting,  biding  its  time.    What  would  it  be  ? 

He  had  remained  at  the  court-house  the  night  before 
with  Pennell  and  Lamborn,  several  of  the  court  offi- 
cials and  attaches,  and  a  dwindling  group  of  the  mor- 
bid and  the  curious.  An  immediate  agreement  had 
been  expected,  allowing,  of  course,  for  the  delay  neces- 
sary to  a  preservation  of  the  decencies,  but  as  the  hours 
dragged  by,  Marriott's  hopes  had  risen ;  each  moment 
increased  the  chance  of  an  acquittal,  of  a  disagreement, 
or  of  some  verdict  not  so  tragic  as  the  one  the  State 
had  striven  for.  His  heart  had  grown  lighter.  But  by 
midnight  he  was  wholly  exhausted.  Intelligence, 
which  knows  no  walls,  had  somehow  stolen  out  from 
the  jury  room;  there  was  some  eccentricity  in  this 
mighty  machine  of  man,  and  no  immediate  agreement 
was  to  be  expected.  And  then  Marriott  had  left,  trust- 
ing Pennell  to  remain  and  represent  the  defendant  at 
the  announcement  of  the  verdict.  It  was  about  the 
only  duty  he  felt  he  could  trust  to  Pennell.  And  now, 
hurrying  into  the  court-house,  his  hopes  rose  once 
more. 

Something  after  all  of  the  effect  of  custom  was  ap- 
parent in  the  atmosphere  of  the  court-room,  where  the 
tribunal  was  convened  thus  so  much  earlier  than  its 
wonted  hour.  The  room  was  strange  and  unreal, 
haunted  in  this  early  morning  gloom  by  the  ghosts  of 
the  protagonists  who  had  stalked  through  it.  Glass* 
ford  was  already  on  the  bench,  his  eyes  swollen,  his 


THE  TURN   OE  THE   BALANCE      §09 

cheeks  puffed.  Lamborn  was  there,  in  the  same  clothes 
he  had  worn  the  day  before, — it  was  plain  that  he  had 
not  had  them  off  at  all.  And  there,  already  in  the  box, 
sat  the  jury,  blear-eyed,  unkempt,  disheveled,  demoral- 
ized, with  traces  yet  of  anger,  hatred  and  the  fury  of 
their  combat  in  their  faces,  a  caricature  of  that  majesty 
with  which  it  is  to  be  presumed  this  institution 
reaches  the  solemn  conclusions  of  the  law.  And  there, 
at  the  table,  still  strewn  with  the  papers  that  were  the 
debris  of  the  conflict,  sat  Archie,  the  sorry  subject 
over  which  men  had  been  for  days  quarreling  and  hag- 
gling, harrying  and  worrying  him  like  a  hunted  thing. 
He  sat  immobile,  gazing  through  the  eastern  windows 
at  the  waiting  and  inscrutable  dawn  of  a  day  ^swollen 
with  such  tragic  possibilities  for  him. 

Glassford  looked  sleepily  at  Marriott  as  he  burst 
through  the  doors.  His  glance  indicated  relief ;  he  was 
glad  the  conclusion  had  been  reached  at  this  early 
hour,  even  if  it  had  haled  him  from  his  warm  bed ;  he 
was  glad  to  be  able  thus  to  trick  the  crowd  and  have 
the  law  discharge  its  solemn  function  before  the  crowd 
came  to  view  it. 

"Gentlemen  of  the  jury,"  he  said,  "have  you  agreed 
upon  a  verdict  ?" 

"We  have,  your  Honor."  Broadwell  was  rising  in 
his  place. 

Glassford  nodded  to  the  clerk,  who  walked  across 
the  floor,  his  heels  striking  out  sharp  sounds.  Marriott 
had  paused  at  the  little  gate  in  the  railing.  He  clutched 
at  it,  and  supported  himself  in  the  weakness  that  sud- 
denly overwhelmed  him.  It  seemed  to  him  that  the 
clerk  took  a  whole  age  in  crossing  that  floor.  He 
waited.    Broadwell  had  handed  the  clerk  a  folded  doc- 


Jio   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

ument.  The  clerk  took  it  and  opened  it ;  it  fluttered  in 
his  fingers.  Now  he  hastily  cast  his  eye  over  it,  and 
Marriott  thought:  "There  still  is  hope — hope  in  each 
infinitesimal  portion  of  a  second  as  he  reads  it — "  for 
he  was  reading  now  : 

"  *We,  the  jury,  impaneled  and  sworn  well  and  truly 
to  try  and  true  deliverance  make  in  the  cause  wherein 
the  State  is  plaintiff  and  Archie  Koerner  is  defendant, 
for  verdict  do  find  and  say  that  we  find  the  defend- 
ant— '  "  Marriott  gasped.  The  clerk  read  on : 

"  ' — guilty  as  charged  in  the  indictment'.'* 

"Gentlemen  of  the  jury,"  said  the  clerk,  folding  the 
paper  in  his  formal  manner,  "is  this  your  verdict?" 

"It  is,"  said  Broadwell. 

"So  say  you  all." 

There  was  silence.  After  a  while  Marriott  controlled 
himself  and  said : 

"Your  Honor,  we  demand  a  poll  of  the  jury." 

Slowly,  one  after  another,  the  clerk  called  the  names, 
and  one  after  another  the  jurors  rose. 

"Is  this  your  verdict  ?"  asked  the  clerk. 

"Perhaps,"  thought  Marriott  as  each  one  rose,  "per- 
haps even  now,  one  will  relent,  one  will  change — 
one—" 

"It  is,"  each  man  answered. 

Then  Glassford  was  speaking  again — the  everlasting 
formalities,  mocking  the  very  sense  of  things,  thanking 
the  jury,  congratulating  them,  discharging  them. 

And  Archie  Koerner  sat  there,  never  moving,  look- 
ing through  the  eastern  window — but  now  at  the 
dawn  no  more,  for  the  window  was  black  to  his  eyes 
and  the  light  had  gone  out  of  the  world. 


XXI 

Archie  sat  by  the  trial  table  and  looked  out  the  win- 
dow toward  the  east.  The  window  from  being  black 
became  gray  again — gray  clouds,  a  scumbled  atmos- 
phere of  gray.  When  the  jury  came  out  of  the  box, 
after  it  was  all  over,  a  young  clerk  in  the  court-house 
rushed  up  to  Menard  and  wrung  his  hand  in  enthusi- 
astic, hysterical  congratulation,  as  if  Menard  in  the 
face  of  heavy  opposition  had  done  some  brave  and  no- 
ble deed.  And  Archie  wondered  what  he  had  ever 
done  to  this  young  clerk  that  he  should  so  have  it  in 
for  him.  Then  Marriott  was  at  his  side  again,  but  he 
said  nothing ;  he  only  took  his  hand. 

*'Well,"  thought  Archie,  "there  is  one  man  left  in 
the  world  who  hasn't  got  it  in  for  me."  And  yet  there 
actually  seemed  to  be  Danner.  For  Banner  bent  over 
and  whispered : 

"Whenever  you're  ready,  Dutch,  we'll  go  back.  Of 
course — no  particular  hurry,  but  when  you're  ready." 

Archie  wondered  what  Danner  was  up  to  now ;  usu- 
ally he  ordered  them  about  Hke  brutes,  with  curses. 

"You'll  be  wanting  a  bite  of  breakfast,"  Danner  was 
saying. 

Breakfast!  The  word  was  strange.  Were  people 
still  eating  breakfast  in  this  world,  just  as  if  nothing 
had  happened,  just  as  if  things  were  as  they  used  to 
be — ^before — before — what?  Before  he  shot  Kouka? 
No,  there  was  nothing  unusual  about  that;  he  didn't 

511 


512   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

care  anything  about  Kouka.  Before  the  penitentiary 
and  the  bull  rings  ?  Before  the  first  time  in  the  work- 
house, when  that  break,  that  lapse,  came  into  his  life? 
But  breakfast — they  would  be  carrying  the  little  pans 
about  in  the  jail  just  now,  and  that  brought  the  odor 
of  coffee  to  his  memory.  Coffee  would  not  be  a  bad 
thing. 

"Any  time,"  he  said  to  Banner. 

Then  they  got  up  and  walked  away,  through  the 
gray  morning. 

In  the  jail,  Danner  instantly  unlocked  the  handcuffs, 
and  as  he  jostled  Archie  a  little  in  opening  the  door,  he 
said: 

"Oh,  excuse  me,  Dutch." 

What  had  got  into  Danner,  anyway  ?  Inside  he  won- 
dered more.    Danner  said : 

"You  needn't  lock  this  morning ;  you  can  stay  in  the 
corridor,  and  I'll  have  your  breakfast  sent  in  to  you  in 
a  moment." 

Then  Danner  put  up  his  big  hand  and  whispered  in 
Archie's  ear : 

"I'll  see  the  cook  and  get  her  to  sneak  in  a  little 
cream  and  sugar  for  your  coffee." 

Archie  could  not  understand  this,  nor  had  he  then 
time  to  wonder  about  it,  for  he  was  being  turned  into 
the  prison,  and  there,  he  knew,  his  companions  were 
waiting  to  know  the  news.  Most  of  them  were  in  their 
cells.  Two  of  them,  the  English  thief  and  Mosey — he 
could  tell  it  was  Mosey  by  the  striped  sweater — were 
standing  in  the  far  end  of  the  corridor,  but  they  did 
not  even  look.  He  caught  a  snatch  of  their  conversa- 
tion. 

"What  was  the  rap,  the  dip  ?" 


THE  TURN   OF  THE   BALANCE      513 

"No,  penny welghtin'." 

They  appeared  to  be  talking  indifferently  and  were 
no  more  curious — so  one  would  say — than  they  would 
have  been  if  some  dinge  had  been  vagged.  And  yet 
Archie  knew  that  every  motion,  every  word,  every 
gesture  of  his  was  important.  He  tried  to  walk  just 
as  he  had  always  walked.  They  waited  till  Archie  was 
at  his  cell  door,  and  then  some  one  called  in  a  tone  of 
suspense  that  could  be  withheld  no  longer : 

*' What's  the  word,  Archie  ?" 

"Touched  off,"  he  called,  loud  enough  for  them  all 
to  hear.  He  spoke  the  words  carelessly,  almost  casu- 
ally, with  great  nonchalance.  There  was  silence,  sin- 
ister and  profound.  Then  gradually  the  conversation 
was  resumed  between  cell  and  cell ;  they  were  all  call- 
ing out  to  him,  all  straining  to  be  cheerful  and  encour- 
aging. 

"That  mouthpiece  of  yours  '11  spring  you  yet,"^  some 
one  said,  "down  below." 

Archie  listened  to  their  attempts  to  cheer  him,  all 
pathetic  enough,  until  presently  the  English  thief 
passed  his  door,  and  said  in  a  low  voice : 

"Be  gime,  me  boy." 

That  was  it  1  Be  game !  From  this  on,  that  must  be 
his  ideal  of  conduct.  He  knew  how  they  would  in- 
quire, how  some  day  Mason  and  old  Dillon,  how  Gibbs 
and  all  the  guns  and  yeggs  would  ask  about  this,  how 
the  old  gang  would  ask  about  it — he  must  be  game. 
He  had  made,  he  thought,  a  fair  beginning. 

Danner  brought  the  breakfast  himself,  and  good  as 
his  word  he  had  got  the  cook  to  put  some  cream  and 
sugar  in  his  coffee.  Not  only  this,  but  the  cook  had 
boiled  him  two  eggs — and  he  hadn't  eaten  eggs  in 


514   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

months.  The  last  time,  he  recalled,  was  when  Curly 
had  boiled  some  in  a  can — had  Curly,  over  in  another 
part  of  the  prison,  been  told  ? 

Archie  thanked  Danner  and  told  him  to  thank  the 
cook.  And  yet  a  wonder  possessed  him.  He  had 
never  known  kindness  in  a  prison  before,  save  among 
the  prisoners  themselves,  and  often  they  were  cruel 
and  mean  to  each  other — like  the  rats  and  mission- 
stiffs  who  were  always  snitching  and  having  them 
chalked  and  stood  out.  Here  in  this  jail,  he  had  never 
beheld  any  kindness,  for  notwithstanding  the  fact 
that  nearly  every  one  there  was  detained  for  a  trial 
which  was  to  establish  his  guilt  or  innocence,  and  the 
law  had  a  theory  that  every  one  was  to  be  presumed 
innocent  until  proved  guilty,  the  sheriff  and  the  jailers 
treated  them  all  as  if  they  were  guilty,  and  as  if  it  was 
their  duty  to  assist  in  the  punishment.  But  here  was  a 
man  who  had  been  declared  guilty  of  a  heinous  crime, 
and  was  to  receive  the  worst  punishment  man  could  be- 
stow, and  yet,  suddenly,  he  was  receiving  every  kind- 
ness, almost  the  first  he  had  ever  known,  at  least  since 
he  had  grown  up.  Having  done  all  they  could  to 
hurry  him  out  of  the  world,  men  suddenly  apologized 
by  showering  him  with  attention  while  he  remained. 

When  he  ate  his  breakfast  Archie  felt  better, — Mr. 
Marriott  would  do  something,  he  was  sure ;  it  was  not 
possible  that  this  thing  could  happen  to  him. 

"Any  of  youse  got  the  makin's  1"  he  called. 

Instantly,  all  down  the  corridor  on  both  sides,  the 
cells'  voices  rang : 

"Here !    Here !    Archie !    Here,  have  mine !" 

"Mr.  Marriott  gave  me  a  whole  box  yesterday,  but 
I  smoked  'em  all  up  in  the  night  J"  he  said. 


xxn 

Those  persons  in  the  community  who  called  them- 
selves the  good  were  gratified  by  Archie's  conviction, 
and  there  were  at  once  editorials  and  even  sermons  to 
express  this  gratification.  Lorenzo  Edwards  of  the 
Courier,  who  hated  Marriott  because  he  had  borrowed 
ten-  dollars  of  Marriott  some  years  before  and  had 
never  paid  it  back,  wrote  an  unctuous  and  hypo- 
critical editorial  in  which  he  condemned  Marriott  for 
carrying  the  case  up,  and  deprecated  the  law's  delay. 
The  Post — although  Archie  had  not  talked  to  a  re- 
porter— ^printed  interviews  with  him,  and  as  a  final 
stroke  of  enterprise,  engaged  Doctor  Tyler  Tilson, 
the  specialist,  to  examine  Archie  for  stigmata  of  de- 
generacy. Tilson  went  to  jail,  taking  with  him  tape 
and  calipers  and  other  instruments,  and  after  measur- 
ing Archie  and  percussing  him,  and  lighting  matches 
before  his  eyes,  and  having  him  walk  blindfolded, 
and  pricking  him  with  pins,  wrote  a  profound  article 
for  the  Post  from  the  standpoint  of  criminology,  in 
which  he  repeated  many  scientific  phrases,  and  used 
the  word  "environment,"  many  times,  and  concluded 
that  Archie  had  the  homicidal  tendency  strongly  de- 
veloped. 

The  Reverend  Doctor  Hole,  who  had  his  degree 
from  a  small  college  in  Dakota,  had  taken  lessons  of  an 
elocutionist,  and  advertised  the  sensational  sermons  in 
which  he  preached  against  those  vices  the  refinements 

5^5 


5t6   the  turn  of  THE  BALANCE 

and  wealth  of  his  own  congregation  did  not  tempt 
them  to  commit,  spoke  on  "Crime" ;  even  Modderwell 
referred  to  it  with  complacency. 

In  all  of  these  expressions,  of  course,  Eades  was 
flattered,  and  this  produced  in  him  a  sensation  of  the 
greatest  comfort  and  justification.  He  felt  repaid  for 
all  he  had  suffered  in  trying  the  case.  But  Marriott 
felt  that  an  injustice  had  been  done,  and,  such  is  the 
quality  of  injustice,  that  one  suspicion  of  it  may  tinc- 
ture every  thought  until  the  complexion  of  the  world 
is  changed  and  everything  appears  unjust.  As  Marri- 
ott read  these  editorials,  the  reports  of  these  sermons, 
and  the  conclusions  of  a  heartless  science  that  had 
thumped  Archie  as  if  he  were  but  a  piece  of  rock  for 
the  geologist's  hammer,  he  was  filled  with  anger,  and 
resolved  that  Archie  should  not  be  put  to  death  until  he 
had  had  the  advantage  of  every  technicality  of  the  law. 
He  determined  to  carry  the  case  up  at  his  own  expense. 
Though  he  could  not  afford  to  do  this,  and  was  stag- 
gered when  he  ran  over  in  his  mind  the  cost  of  the 
transcript  of  evidence,  the  transcript  of  the  record,  the 
printing  of  the  briefs,  the  railroad  and  hotel  bills,  and 
all  that, — he  felt  it  would  be  a  satisfaction  to  see  one 
poor  man,  at  least,  receive  in  the  courts  all  that  a  rich 
man  may  demand. 

Within  the  three  days  provided  by  law,  Marriott 
filed  his  motion  for  a  new  trial  and  then  he  was  con- 
tent to  wait,  and  let  the  proceedings  drag  along.  But 
Eades  insisted  on  an  immediate  hearing. 

When  Glassford  had  announced  his  decision  deny- 
ing a  new  trial,  he  hesitated  a  moment  and  then,  with 
an  effect  of  gathering  himself  for  an  ordeal,  he  dropped 
Jiis  judicial  manner,  called  Eades  and  Marriott  to  the 


THE   TURN   OF   THE   BALANCE       517 

bencH,  leaned  over  informally,  whispered  with  them, 
and  finally,  as  if  justifying  a  decision  he  had  just  com- 
municated to  them,  observed : 

*We  might  as  well  do  it  now  and  have  it  over  with." 

Then  he  sent  the  sheriff  for  Archie,  and  the  bailiff 
for  a  calendar. 

There  were  few  persons  in  the  court-room  besides 
the  clerk  and  the  bailiff,  Marriott  and  Pennell,  Eades 
and  Lamborn.  It  was  a  bleak  day;  outside  a  mean 
wind  that  had  been  blowing  for  three  days  off  the  lake 
swept  the  streets  bare  of  their  refuse  and  swirled  it 
everywhere  in  clouds  of  filth.  The  sky  was  gray,  and 
the  cold  penetrated  to  the  marrow ;  men  hurried  along 
with  their  heads  huddled  in  the  collars  of  their  over- 
coats— if  they  had  overcoats ;  they  winced  and  screwed 
their  faces  in  the  stinging  cold,  longing  for  sunshine, 
for  snow,  for  rain,  for  anything  to  break  the  monotony 
of  this  weather.  Within  the  court-room  the  gloom  was 
intensified  by  the  doom  that  was  about  to  be  pro- 
nounced. While  they  waited,  Eades  and  Lamborn  sat 
at  a  table,  uneasily  moving  now  and  then;  Marriott 
walked  up  and  down ;  no  one  spoke.  Glassford  was 
scowling  over  his  calendar,  pausing  now  and  then, 
lifting  his  eyes  and  looking  off,  evidently  making  a 
calculation. 

When  Bentley  and  Danner  came  at  last  with  Archie, 
and  unshackled  him,  Glassford  did  not  look  up.  He 
kept  his  head  bowed  over  his  docket ;  now  and  then  he 
looked  at  his  calendar,  the  leaves  of  which  rattled  and 
trembled  as  he  turned  them  over.  Then  they  waited, 
every  one  there,  in  silence.  After  a  while,  Glassford 
spoke.  He  spoke  in  a  low  voice,  into  which  at  first  he 
\  (Ji4  not  succeed  in  putting  much  strength : 


5i8   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

"Koerner,  you  may  stand  up." 

Archie  rose  promptly,  his  heels  clicked  together,  his 
hands  dropped  stiffly  to  his  side;  he  held  his  head 
erect,  as  he  came  to  the  military  attitude  of  attention. 
But  Glassford  did  not  look  at  him.  He  was  gazing 
out  of  the  window  again  toward  that  mysterious  win- 
dow across  the  street. 

"Have  you  anything  to  say  why  the  sentence  of  this 
court  should  not  be  passed  upon  you  ?"  he  asked  pres- 
ently. 

"No,  sir,"  said  Archie.  He  was  looking  directly  at 
Glassford,  but  Glassford  did  not  look  at  him.  Glass- 
ford  waited,  studying  how  he  should  begin.  The  re- 
porters were  poising  their  pencils  nervously. 

"Koerner,"  Glassford  began,  still  looking  away, 
"after  a  fair  and  impartial  trial  before  a  jury  of  twelve 
sworn  men  you  have  been  found  guilty  of  the  crime  of 
murder  in  the  first  degree.  The  trial  was  conducted 
carefully  and  deliberately;  the  jury  was  composed  of 
honest  and  representative  men,  and  you  were  defended, 
and  all  your  rights  conserved  by  able  counsel.  You 
have  had  the  benefit  of  every  immunity  known  to  our 
law,  and  yet,  after  calm  deliberation,  as  the  court  has 
said,  you  have  been  found  guilty.  We  have,  in  addi- 
tion to  that,  here  to-day  heard  a  motion  for  a  new 
trial;  we  have  very  carefully  reviewed  the  evidence 
and  the  law  in  this  case,  and  the  court  is  convinced 
that  no  errors  were  committed  on  the  trial  detrimental 
to  your  rights  in  the  premises  or  prejudicial  to  your 
interests.  It  now  becomes  the  duty  of  the  court  to  pass 
sentence  upon  you." 

Glassford  paused,  removed  his  glasses,  put  them  on 
again^  and  looked  out  of  the  window  a$  before. 


THE   TURN   OF   THE   BALANCE       519 

"Fortunately — I  say  fortunately,  for  so  I  feel  about 
it" — he  nodded — "fortunately  for  me,  I  have  no  dis- 
cretion as  to  what  your  punishment  shall  be.  The  law 
has  fixed  that ;  it  leaves  nothing  to  me  but  to  announce 
its  determination.  My  duty  is  clear;  in  a  measure, 
simple." 

Glassford  paused  again,  sighed  faintly,  and  settled 
in  his  chair  with  some  relief,  as  if  he  had  succeeded 
in  detaching  himself  personally  from  the  situation,  and 
remained  now  only  in  his  representative  judicial  ca- 
pacity. 

"Still,"  he  went  on,  speaking  in  an  apologetic  tone 
that  betokened  a  lingering  of  his  personal  identity, 
"that  duty,  while  clear,  is  none  the  less  painful.  I 
would  that  it  had  not  fallen  to  my  lot."  He  paused 
again,  still  looking  away.  "It  is  a  sad  and  melancholy 
spectacle — a  young  man  of  your  strength  and  native 
ability,  with  your  opportunities  for  living  a  good  and 
useful  life,  standing  here  to  hear  the  extreme  penalty 
of  the  law  pronounced  upon  you.  You  might  have 
been  an  honorable,  upright  man;  you  seem,  so  far  as 
I  am  able  to  ascertain,  to  have  come  from  a  good  home, 
and  to  have  had  honest,  frugal,  industrious  parents. 
You  have  had  the  opportunity  of  serving  your  coun- 
try, you  have  had  the  benefit  of  the  training  and  dis- 
cipline of  the  regular  army.  You  might  have  put  to 
some  good  use  the  lessons  you  learned  in  those  places. 
And  yet,  you  seem  to  have  wilfully  abandoned  your- 
self to  a  life  of  crime.  You  have  shown  an  utter  dis- 
regard for  the  sacred  right  of  property;  you  have  been 
ready  to  steal,  to  live  on  the  usufruct  of  the  labor  of 
others;  and  now,  as  is  inevitable" — Glassford  shook 
his  head  emphatically  as  he  pronounced  the  word  "in- 


520   ^THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

evitable" — "yo^  ^^ve  gone  on  until  nothing  Is  sacred 
in  your  eyes — not  even  human  Hfe  itself/* 

Glassford,  who  found  it  easy  to  talk  in  this  moral 
strain,  especially. when  reporters  were  present  to  take 
down  his  words,  went  on  repeating  phrases  he  em- 
ployed on  the  occasions  when  he  pronounced  sentence, 
until,  as  it  seemed  to  him,  having  worked  himself  up 
to  the  proper  pitch,  he  said,  with  one  last  tone  of 
regret : 

"It  is  a  painful  duty,"  and  then  feeling  there  was  no 
way  out  of  the  duty,  unless  he  resigned  his  position, 
which,  of  course,  was  out  of  the  question,  he  straight- 
ened in  his  seat,  turned,  looked  up  at  the  ceiling  and 
said,  speaking  more  rapidly,  "and  yet  I  can  not  shirk 
a  duty  because  it  is  disagreeable." 

He  clasped  the  desk  before  him  tightly  with  his 
hands ;  his  lips  were  pale.    Then  he  said : 

"The  sentence  of  the  court  is  that  you  be  taken  by 
the  sheriff  to  the  penitentiary,  and  there  delivered  over 
into  the  custody  of  the  warden  of  the  said  penitentiary, 
by  him  to  be  guarded  and  safely  kept  until  the  four- 
teenth day  of  May  next  ensuing,  on  which  day  tho 
said  warden  of  the  said  penitentiary  shall  cause  a  cur- 
rent of  electricity  to  be  passed  through  your  body,  and 
to  cause  the  said  current  to  continue  to  be  passed 
through  your  body — until  you  are  dead." 

Glassford  paused ;  no  one  in  the  court-room  moved. 
Archie  still  kept  his  eyes  on  Glassford,  and  Glassford 
kept  his  eyes  on  the  wall.  Glassford  had  remembered 
that  in  olden  days  the  judge,  when  he  donned  the  black 
cap,  at  some  such  time  as  this  used  to  pray  that  God 
would  have  mercy  on  the  soul  of  the  man  for  whom 
he  himself  could  find  no  mercy ;  but  Glassford  did  not 


THE  TURN  OF  THE   BALANCE      521 

like  to  say  this;  it  seemed  too  old-fashioned  and  he 
would  have  felt  silly  and  self-conscious  in  it.  And  yet, 
he  felt  that  the  proprieties  demanded  that  something 
be  said  in  the  tone  of  piety,  and,  thinking  a  moment, 
he  added : 

"And  I  hope,  Koerner,  that  you  will  employ  the  few 
remaining  days  of  life  left  to  you  in  preparing  your 
soul  to  meet  its  Maker." 

With  an  air  of  relief,  Glassford  turned,  and  wrote 
in  his  docket.  On  his  broad,  shining  forehead  drops 
of  perspiration  were  glistening. 

**The  prisoner  will  be  remanded,"  he  said. 

Archie  faced  about  and  held  out  his  left  wrist  to- 
ward Danner.  The  handcuffs  clicked,  Marriott  turned, 
glanced  at  Archie,  but  he  could  not  bear  to  look  in  his 
white  face.  Then  he  heard  Banner's  feet  and  Archie's 
feet  falling  in  unison  as  they  passed  out  of  the  court- 
room. 


XXIII 

Danny  Gibbs,  having  recovered  from  the  debauch 
into  which  Archie's  fate  had  plunged  him,  sat  in  his 
back  room  reading  the  evening  paper.  His  spree  had 
lasted  for  a  week,  and  the  whole  tenderloin  had 
seethed  with  the  excitement  of  his  escapades.  Now 
that  it  was  all  over  and  reason  had  returned,  he  had 
made  new  resolutions,  and  a  certain  moral  rehabilita- 
tion was  expressed  in  his  solemn  demeanor  and  in  the 
utter  neatness  of  his  attire.  He  was  clean-shaven,  his 
skin  glowed  pink  from  Turkish  baths,  his  gray  hair 
was  closely  trimmed  and  soberly  parted,  his  linen  was 
scrupulously  clean;  he  wore  new  clothes  of  gray,  his 
shoes  were  polished  and  without  a  fleck  of  dust.  His 
meditations  that  evening  might  have  been  profoundly 
pious,  or  they  might  have  been  dim,  foggy  recollec- 
tions of  the  satisfaction  he  had  felt  in  heaping  scathing 
curses  on  the  head  of  Quinn,  whom  he  had  met  in 
Eva  Clason's  while  on  his  rampage.  He  had  cursed 
the  detective  as  a  representative  of  the  entire  race  of 
policemen,  whom  he  hated,  and  Quinn  had  apparently 
taken  it  in  this  impersonal  sense,  for  he  had  stood  qui- 
etly by  without  resenting  Gibbs's  profane  denuncia- 
tion. But  whatever  Gibbs's  meditations,  they  were 
broken  by  the  entrance  of  a  woman. 

She  was  dressed  just  as  she  had  always  been  in  the 
long  years  Gibbs  had  known  her,  soberly  and  in  taste ; 

522 


THE  TURN   OF  THE  BALANCE      523 

she  wore  a  dark  tailor  suit,  the  jacket  of  which  dis- 
closed at  her  full  bosom  a  fresh  white  waist.  She  was 
gloved  and  carried  a  small  hand-bag ;  the  bow  of  black 
ribbon  on  her  hat  trembled  with  her  agitation ;  she  was 
not  tall,  but  she  was  heavy,  with  the  tendency  to  the 
corpulence  of  middle  years.  Her  reddish  hair  was 
touched  with  gray  here  and  there,  and,  as  Gibbs  looked 
at  her,  he  could  see  in  her  flushed  face  traces  of  the 
beauty  that  had  been  the  fatal  fortune  of  the  girlhood 
of  Jane  the  Gun. 

*'Howdy,  Dan,"  she  said,  holding  out  her  gloved 
hand. 

"Hello,  Jane,"  he  said.    "When'd  you  come?" 

"I  got  in  last  night,"  she  said,  laying  her  hand-bag 
on  the  table.  "Give  me  a  little  whisky,  Dan."  She 
tugged  at  her  gloves,  which  came  from  her  moist  Hands 
reluctantly.  Gibbs  was  looking  at  her  hands, — they 
were  as  white,  as  soft  and  as  beautiful  as  they  had 
ever  been.  One  thing  in  the  world,  he  reflected  in  the 
saddened  philosophy  that  had  come  to  him  with  so- 
briety, had  held  unchanged,  anyway. 

"I  said  a  little  whisky,  Dan !"  she  spoke  with  some 
of  her  old  imperiousness. 

"No,"  he  said  resolutely,  "you  don't  need  any. 
There's  nothing  in  it."  He  was  speaking  out  of  his 
moral  rehabilitation.  She  glanced  at  him  angrily;  he 
saw  that  her  brown  eyes,  the  brown  eyes  that  went 
with  her  reddish  hair  and  her  warm  complexion,  were 
flaming  and  almost  red.  He  remembered  to  have  seen 
them  flame  that  dangerous  red  before.  Still,  it  would 
be  best  to  mollify  her. 

"There  ain't  any  more  whisky  in  town,"  he  said, 
"I've  drunk  it  all  up." 


524!      THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE' 

She  laugKed  as  the  second  glove  came  off  witfi  S 
final  jerk. 

"I  heard  you'd  been  hitting  the  pots.  Isn't  it  a 
shame !    The  poor  kid !    I  heard  it's  a  kangaroo." 

Gibbs  made  no  comment. 

"He  was  a  raw  one,  too,  wasn't  he  ?" 

"Well,  he's  a  young  Dutchman — he  filled  in  with 
the  mob  several  moons  back." 

"What  was  the  rap  ?" 

"He  boosted  a  rod,  and  they  settled  him  for  that ;  he 
got  a  stretch.  Then  he  was  in  when  they  knocked  off 
the  peter  in  that  P.  O.  down  in  Indiana." 

"That's  what  I  couldn't  get  hip  to ;  Mason  wasn't — " 

"No,  not  that  time;  they  had  him  wrong;  but  you 
know  what  them  elbows  are." 

"They  must  have  rapped  hard." 

"Yes,  they  gave  them  a  five  spot.  But  the  Dutch 
wasn't  in  on  that  Flanagan  job,  neither  was  Curly. 
That  was  rough  work — the  cat,  I  s'pose." 

Jane,  her  chin  in  her  hands,  suddenly  became  intent, 
looking  straight  into  Gibbs's  eyes. 

"Dan,  that's  what  I  want  to  get  wise  to." 

Her  cheeks  flamed  to  her  white  temples,  her  breast 
rose  tumultuously,  and  as  she  looked  at  Gibbs  her  eyes 
contracted,  the  wrinkles  about  them  became  deeper 
and  older,  and  they  wore  the  hard  ugly  look  of  jealous 
suspicion.  But  presently  her  lip  quivered,  then  slowly 
along  the  lower  lashes  of  her  eyes  the  tears  gathered. 

"What's  the  matter,  Jane?" 

"You  don't  know  what  I've  stood  for  that  man !"  she 
blazed  out.  "I  could  settle  him.  I  could  send  him  to 
the  stir.  I  could  have  him  touched  off!"  She  had 
clenched  her  fist,  and,  at  these  last  words,  with  their 


THE  TURN   of:  THE   BALANCE      525 

horrible  possibility,  she  smote  it  down  on  the  table. 
"But  he  knew  I  wouldn't  be  a  copper!"  She  ended 
with  this,  and  fumbling  among  a  woman's  trinkets  in 
her  hand-bag,  she  snatched  out  a  handkerchief  and 
hastily  brushed  away  the  tears.  Gibbs,  appealed  to  in 
all  sorts  of  exigencies,  was  at  a  loss  when  a  woman 
wept.  She  shook  with  weeping,  until  her  hatred  was 
lost  in  the  pity  she  felt  for  herself. 

"I  never  said  a  word  when  you  flew  me  the  kite  to 
keep  under  cover  that  time  he  plugged  Moon." 

"No,  you  were  good  then." 

"Yes,"  she  said,  looking  up  for  approval,  "I  was, 
wasn't  I  ?    But  this  time — I  won't  stand  for  it !" 

"I'm  out  o'  this,"  said  Gibbs. 

"Well,"  she  went  on,  "his  mouthpiece  wrote  me  not 
to  show  here.  But  I  was  on  at  once.  Curly  knew  I 
was  hip  from  the  start" — her  anger  was  rising  again. 
"It  was  all  framed  up ;  he  got  that  mouthpiece  to  hand 
me  that  bull  con,  and  he's  even  got  McFee  to — " 

"McFee !"  said  Gibbs,  starting  at  the  name  of  the  in- 
spector.   "McFee !    Have  you  been  to  him  ?" 

"Yes,  I've  been  to  him!"  she  said,  repeating  his 
words  with  a  satirical  curl  of  the  lip.  "I've  been  to 
him;  the  mouthpiece  sent  me  word  to  lay  low  till  he 
sprung  him;  Curly  sent  me  word  that  McFee  said  I 
wasn't  to  come  to  this  town.  Think  I  couldn't  see 
through  all  that?  I  was  wise  in  a  minute  and  I  just 
come,  that's  what  I  did,  right  away.  I  did  the  grand 
over  here." 

"What  was  it  you  thought  they  had  framed  up?" 
asked  Gibbs  innocently.    "I  can't  follow  you." 

"Aw,  now,  Dan,"  she  said,  drawing  away  from  the 
table  with  a  sneer,  "don't  you  try  to  whip-saw  me." 


526   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

"No,  on  the  dead  r 

"What  was  it?  Why,  some  moll,  of  course;  some 
tommy." 

Gibbs  leaned  back  and  laughed ;  he  laughed  because 
he  saw  that  this  was  simply  woman's  jealousy. 

"Look  here,  Jane,"  he  said,  "you  know  I  don't  like 
to  referee  these  domestic  scraps — I  know  I'll  be  the 
fall  guy  if  I  do — but  you're  wrong,  that's  all;  you've 
got  it  wrong." 

She  looked  at  him,  intently  trying  to  prove  his  sin- 
cerity, and  anxious  to  be  convinced  that  her  suspicions 
were  unfounded,  and  yet  by  habit  and  by  her  long  life 
of  crime  she  was  so  suspicious  and  so  distrustful — like 
all  thieves,  she  thought  there  were  no  honest  people  in 
the  world — that  her  suspicions  soon  gained  their  usual 
mastery  over  her,  and  she  broke  out : 

"You  know  I'm  not  wrong.    I  went  to  see  McFee." 

"What  did  he  say?"  asked  Gibbs,  with  the  interest 
in  anything  this  lord  that  stood  between  him  and  the 
upper  world  might  say. 

"Why,  he  said  he  wouldn't  say  nothing." 

"Did  he  say  you  could  stay  ?" 

"Well,"  she  hesitated  an  instant,  "he  said  he  didn't 
want  me  doing  any  work  in  town ;  he  said  he  wouldn't 
stand  for  it." 

"No,  you  mustn't  do  any  work  Here."  Gibbs  spoke 
now  with  his  own  authority,  reinforcing  that  of  the 
detective. 

"Oh,  sin  not  leery !"  she  sneered  at  him.  "I'm  cov- 
ered all  right,  and  strong.  You're  missing  the  num- 
ber, that's  all,  I'm  g^ing  to  camp  here,  and  when  I 
cp^  h»tr  VU  Clout  her  on  the  kurb ;  I'll  slam  a  rod  to  her 
urst,  if  I  croak  for  it !" 


THE   TURN   OF  THE   BALx\NCE      527 

"Jane,"  said  Gibbs,  when  he  had  looked  his  stupe- 
faction at  her,  "you've  certainly  gone  off  your  nut. 
Who  in  hell's  this  woman  you're  talking  about  ?" 

"As  if  you  don't  know !  What  do  you  want  to  string 
me  for?" 

Gibbs  looked  at  her  with  a  perfectly  blank  face.  1 

"All  right,  have  it  your  way." 

"Well,"  she  said  presently,  with  some  doubt  in  her 
mind,  "if  you  don't  know  and  just  to  prove  to  you 
that  I  do  know,  it's  the  sister  of  that  young  Koerner !" 

Gibbs  looked  at  her  a  long  time  in  a  kind  of  silent 
contempt.  Then  he  said  in  a  tone  that  dismissed  the 
subject  as  an  absurdity: 

"You've  passed ;  the  nut  college  for  you." 

Jane  fingered  the  metal  snake  that  made  the  handle 
of  her  bag;  now  and  then  she  sighed,  and  after  a 
while  she  was  forced  to  speak — the  silence  oppressed 
her: 

"Well,  I'll  stay  and  see,  anyway." 

"Jane,  you're  bug  house,"  said  Gibbs  quietly. 

Somehow,  at  the  words,  she  bowed  her  head  on  her 
hands  and  wept;  the  black  ribbon  on  her  hat  shook 
with  her  sobbing. 

"Oh,  Dan,  I  am  bug  house,"  she  sobhed;  "that's 
what  I've  been  leery  of.  I  haven't  slept  for  a  month ; 
I've  laid  awake  night  after  night;  for  four  days  now 
I've  been  going  down  the  line — hunting  her  every- 
where, and  I  can't  find  her !" 

She  gave  way  utterly  and  cried.  And  Gibbs  waited 
with  a  certain  aspect  of  stolid  patience,  but  in  reality 
with  a  distrust  of  himself;  he  was  a  sentimental  man, 
who  was  moved  by  any  suffering  that  revealed  itself 
to  him  concretely,  or  any  grief  or  hardship  that  lay  be- 


S28      .THE  TURN   OF-  THE   BALANCE 

fore  his  own  eyes,  though  he  lacked  the  cultured  imag- 
ination that  could  reveal  the  sorrows  and  the  suffering 
that  are  hidden  in  the  world  beyond  immediate  vision. 
But  she  ceased  her  weeping  as  suddenly  as  she  had 
begun  it. 

*'Dan,"  she  said,  looking  up,  "you  don't  know  what 
I've  done  for  that  man.  I  was  getting  along  all  right 
when  I  doubled  with  him;  I  was  doing  well — copping 
the  cush  right  along.  I  was  working  under  protection 
in  Chi. ;  I  gave  it  all  up  for  him — " 

She  broke  off  suddenly  and  exclaimed  irrelevantly: 

"The  tommy  buster !" 

Gibbs  started. 

"No,"  he  protested,  "not  Curly !" 

"Sure !"  she  sneered,  turning  away  in  disgust  of  his 
doubt. 

"What  made  you  stand  for  it  ?" 

"Well,"  she  temporized,  forced  to  be  just,  "it  was 
only  once.  I  had  rousted  a  goose  for  his  poke — all 
alone  too — "  She  spoke  with  the  pride  she  had  always 
had  in  her  dexterity,  and  Gibbs  suddenly  recalled  the 
fact  that  she  had  been  the  first  person  in  all  their  tra- 
ditions who  could  take  a  pocketbook  from  a  man, 
"weed"  and  replace  it  without  his  being  aware;  the 
remembrance  pleased  him  and  his  eyes  lighted  up. 

"What's  the  matter  ?"  she  demanded  suddenly. 

"I  was  thinking  of  the  time  you  turned  the  old  trick, 
and  at  the  come-back,  when  the  bulls  found  the  suck- 
er's leather  on  him  with  the  put-back,  they  booted  him 
down  the  street ;  remember  ?" 

Jane  looked  modest  and  smiled,  but  she  was  too  full 
of  her  troubles  now  for  compliments,  though  she  had 
a  woman's  love  for  them. 


'  THE  TURN   OF  THE   BAUANCE      529 

"I  saw  the  sucker  was  fanning  and  I — well,  Curly 
comes  up  just  then  and  he  goes  off  his  nut  and  he — 
gives  me  a  beating — in  the  street." 

She  saw  that  the  circumstances  altered  the  case  in 
Gibbs's  eyes,  and  she  rather  repented  having  told. 

*'He  said  he  didn't  want  me  working;  he  said  he 
could  support  me." 

Gibbs  plainly  thought  well  of  Curly's  wish  to  be  the 
sole  head  and  support  of  his  nomadic  family,  but  he 
recognized  certain  disadvantages  in  Curly's  attitude 
when  he  said : 

*'You  could  get  more  than  he  could." 

"Course,  that's  what  I  told  him,  but  he  said  no,  he 
wouldn't  let  me,  and,  Dan,  you  know  what  I  did? 
Why,  I  helped  him;  he  used  to  bust  tags  on  the  rat- 
tlers, and  he  hoisted  express-wagons — I  knew  where 
to  dispose  of  the  stuff — furs  and  that  sort,  and  we  did 
do  pretty  well.  I  used  to  fill  out  for  him,  and  then  I'd 
go  with  him  to  the  plant  at  night  and  wait  with  the 
drag  holding  the  horses — God!  I've  sat  out  in  the 
jungle  when  it  was  freezing,  sat  out  for  hours ;  some- 
times the  plant  had  been  sprung  by  the  bulls  or  the 
hoosiers ;  it  made  no  difference — that's  how  I  spent  my 
nights  for  two  winters.  I  know  every  road  and  every 
field  and  every  fence  corner  around  that  town.  It  gave 
me  the  rheumatism,  and  I  hurt  my  back  helping  him 
load  the  swag.  You  see  he  didn't  have  a  gager  and 
didn't  have  to  bit  up  with  any  one,  but  he  never  appre- 
ciated that !  And  now  he's  lammed,  he's  pigged,  that's 
what  he's  done;  he's  thrown  me  down — ^but  you  bet 
I'll  have  my  hunk !" 

'That  won't  get  you  anything,"  Gibbs  argued. 
"Anyway,"  he  added,  as  if  he  had  suddenly  discov- 


530   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

ered  a  solution,  "wHy  don't  you  go  back  on  the  gun 
now?" 

She  was  silent  a  moment,  and,  as  she  sat  there,  the 
tears  that  were  constantly  filling  her  eyes  welled  up 
again,  and  she  said,  though  reluctantly  and  with  a 
kind  of  self-consciousness: 

"I  don't  want  to,  Dan.  I'm  getting  old.  To  tell  the 
truth,  since  I've  been  out  of  it,  I'm  sick  of  the  busi- 
ness— I — I've  got  a  notion  to  square  it." 

Gibbs  was  so  used  to  this  talk  of  reform  that  it 
passed  him  idly  by,  and  he  only  laughed.  She  leaned 
her  cheek  against  her  hand;  with  the  other  hand  she 
twisted  and  untwisted  the  metal  snake.  Presently  she 
sighed  unconsciously. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  now  ?"  Gibbs  asked  pres- 
ently. 

"I'm  going  to  stay  here  in  town  till  I  see  this  wom- 
an, 

"But  you  can't  do  any  work  here." 

"I  don't  want  to  do  any  work,  I  tell  you." 

"How'll  you  live?" 

"Live!"  she  said  scornfully.  "I  don't  care  how;  I 
don't  care  if  I  have  to  carry  the  banner — I'll  get  a  bowl 
of  sky-blue  once  in  a  while — and  I'll  wash  dishes — 
anything!"  She  struck  the  table,  and  Gibbs's  eyes 
fastened  on  her  white,  plump  little  fist  as  it  lay  there; 
then  he  laughed,  thinking  of  it  in  a  dish-pan,  where  it 
had  never  been. 

"Well,  I'll  do  it !"  she  persisted,  reading  his  thought 
and  hastily  withdrawing  the  fist.  "I'm  going  to  get 
him  !"    She  looked  at  Gibbs  for  emphasis. 

"Jane,"  he  said  quietly,  "you  want  to  cut  that  out. 
This  is  no  place  for  you  now — ^this  town's  getting  on 


iTHE  TURN   OF  THE   BALANCE      531 

I 

the  bum ;  they  Ve  put  it  to  the  bad.  It's  time  to  rip  it. 
This  rapper — " 

"Oh,  yes,  I've  heard — ^what's  this  his  name  is  now?" 

"Eades." 

"What  kind  is  he?" 

"Oh,  he's  a  swell  lobster." 

"They  tell  me  he's  strong." 

"He's  the  limit." 

Her  eyes  lighted  up  suddenly  and  she  sat  upright. 

"Then  I'll  go  see  him!" 

"Jane !"  Gibbs  exclaimed  with  as  much  feeling  as  he 
ever  showed.  He  saw  by  the  flashes  of  her  eyes  that 
her  mind  was  working  rapidly,  though  he  could  not 
follow  the  quick  and  surprising  turns  her  intentions 
would  take.  He  had  a  sudden  vision,  however,  of  her 
sitting  in  Eades's  office,  talking  to  him,  passing  her- 
self off,  doubtless,  for  the  respectable  and  devoted 
wife  of  Jackson;  he  knew  how  easily  she  could  im- 
pose on  Eades;  he  knew  how  Eades  would  be  im- 
pressed by  a  woman  who  wore  the  good  clothes  Jane 
knew  how  to  wear  so  well,  and  he  felt,  too,  that  in  his 
utter  ignorance  of  the  world  from  which  Jane  came, 
in  his  utter  ignorance  of  life  in  general,  Eades  would 
believe  anything  she  told  himj  and  becoming  thus 
prejudiced  in  the  very  beginning,  make  untold  work 
for  him  to  do  in  order  to  save  his  friend. 

"Jane,"  he  said  severely,  "you  let  him  alone;  you 
hear?" 

She  had  risen  and  was  drawing  on  her  gloves.  She 
stood  there  an  instant,  smiling  as  if  her  new  notion 
pleased  her,  while  she  pressed  down  the  fingers  of  her 
glove  on  her  left  hand.    Then  she  said  pleasantly: 

"Good-by,  Dan.    Give  my  love  to  Kate." 

And  she  turned  and  yv^as  gone. 


xxiy 

Elizabeth'  had  heard  her  father  enter  and  she  im- 
agined him  sitting  in  the  Hbrary,  musing  by  the  fire, 
finding  a  tired  man's  comfort  in  that  quiet  httle  hour 
before  dinner.  Sensitive  as  ever  to  atmospheres, 
EHzabeth  felt  the  coziness  of  the  hour,  and  looked  for- 
(vard  to  dinner  v^ith  pleasure.  For  days  she  had  been 
under  the  gloom  of  Archie's  conviction ;  she  had  never 
followed  a  murder  case  before,  but  she  had  special  rea- 
son for  an  interest  in  this.  She  had  helped  Marriott 
all  she  could  by  wishing  for  his  success;  she  had  felt 
his  failure  as  a  blow,  and  this,  with  the  thought  of 
Gusta,  had  caused  her  inexpressible  depression.  But 
by  an  effort  she  had  put  these  thoughts  from  her  mind, 
and  now  in  her  youth,  her  health,  her  wholesomeness, 
the  effect  of  so  much  sorrow  and  despair  was  leaving 
her.  She  had  finished  her  toilet,  which,  answering  her 
mood,  was  bright  that  evening,  when  she  heard  Dick 
enter.  Half  the  time  of  late  he  had  not  come  home  at 
all,  sometimes  days  went  by  without  her  seeing  him. 
She  glanced  at  the  Httle  watch  on  her  dressing-table; 
it  was  not  yet  six  and  Dick  was  home  in  time  for  din- 
ner; perhaps  he  would  spend  the  evening  at  home. 
She  hoped  he  had  not  come  to  dress  for  some  engage- 
ment that  would  take  him  away.  Her  father,  she 
knew,  would  be  happy  in  the  thought  of  the  boy's 
spending  an  evening  with  him ;  almost  pathetic  in  his 

532 


THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE      533 

happiness.  Of  late,  more  and  more,  as  she  noted,  the 
father  had  yearned  toward  the  son ;  the  Hghtest  word, 
a  look,  a  smile  from  Dick  was  sufficient  to  make  him 
glow  with  pleasure.  It  made  Elizabeth  sad  to  see  it, 
and  it  made  her  angry  to  see  how  her  mother  fon- 
dled and  caressed  him,  excusing  him  for,  if  not  abet- 
ting him  in,  all  his  excesses.  But  these  thoughts  were 
interrupted  just  then  by  Dick's  voice.  He  was  in  the 
hall  outside,  and  he  spoke  her  name : 

"Bessr 

The  tone  of  the  voice  struck  her  oddly.  He  had 
pushed  open  the  door  and  hesitated  on  the  threshold, 
peering  in  cautiously.  Then  he  entered  and  carefully 
closed  the  door  behind  him.  She  scented  the  odor  of 
Scotch  whisky,  of  cigarettes,  in  short,  the  odor  of  the 
club  man.  His  face,  which  she  had  thought  ruddy  with 
the  health,  the  exuberance,  the  inexhaustible  vitality 
of  youth,  she  saw  now  to  be  really  unhealthy,  its  ruddy 
tints  but  the  flush  of  his  dissipations.  Now,  his  face 
went  white  suddenly,  as  if  a  mask  had  been  snatched 
from  it;  she  saw  the  weakness  and  sensuousness  that 
marred  it. 

"Dick!"  she  said,  for  some  reason  speaking  in  a 
whisper.    "What's  the  matter?    Tell  me!" 

At  first  a  great  fear  came  to  her,  a  fear  that  he  was 
intoxicated.  She  knew  by  intuition  that  Dick  must 
frequently  have  been  intoxicated;  but  she  had  never 
seen  him  so,  and  she  dreaded  it ;  she  could  have  borne 
anything  better  than  that,  she  felt.  He  sank  on  to  the 
edge  of  her  bed  and  sat  there,  rocking  miserably  to  and 
fro,  his  overcoat  bundled  about  him,  his  hat  toppling 
on  the  side  of  his  head,  a  figure  of  utter  demoraliza- 
tion. , 


534   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

"Dick!"  she  said,  going  to  him,  "what  is  it?  Tell 
me!" 

She  took  him  by  the  shoulders  and  gave  him  a  little 
shake.  He  continued  to  rock  back  and  forth  and  to 
moan. 

"Oh,  my  God !"  he  said  presently.  "What  am  I  go- 
ing to  do !" 

Elizabeth  gathered  herself  for  one  of  those  ordeals 
which,  in  all  families,  there  is  one  stronger  than  the 
rest  to  meet  and  deal  with. 

"Here,  sit  up."  She  shook  him.  "Sit  up  and  tell 
me  what  ails  you."  The  fear  that  he  was  intoxicated 
had  left  her,  and  there  was  relief  in  this.  "And  take 
off  your  hat."  She  seized  the  hat  from  his  head  and 
laid  it  on  the  little  mahogany  stand  beside  her  bed. 
"If  you  knew  how  ridiculous  you  look !" 

He  sat  up  at  this  and  weakly  began  drawing  off  his 
gloves.  When  he  had  them  off,  he  drew  them  through 
his  hand,  slapped  them  in  his  palm,  and  then  with  a 
weary  sigh,  said : 

"Well,  Fm  ruined!" 

"Oh,  don't  be  dramatic!"  She  was  herself  now. 
"Tell  me  what  scrape  you're  in,  and  we'll  see  how  to 
get  you  out  of  it."  She  was  quite  composed.  She 
drew  up  a  chair  for  him  and  one  for  herself.  Some 
silly  escapade,  no  doubt,  she  thought,  which  in  his 
weakness  he  was  half  glad  to  make  the  most  of.  He 
had  removed  his  overcoat  and  taken  the  chair  she  had 
placed  for  him.  Then  he  raised  his  face,  and  when  she 
saw  the  expression,  she  felt  the  blood  leave  her  cheeks ; 
she  knew  that  the  trouble  was  real.  She  struggled  an 
instant  against  a  sickness  that  assailed  her,  and  then, 
calming  herself,  prepared  to  meet  it. 


THE  TURN   OF  THE   BALANCE      535 

"Well?"  she  said. 

"Bess,"  he  began  fearfully,  and  his  head  dropped 
again.  "Bess" — ^his  voice  was  very  strange — "it's — 
the— bank." 

She  shivered  as  if  a  dead  cold  blast  had  struck  her. 
In  the  moment  before  there  had  swept  through  her 
mind  a  thousand  possibilities,  but  never  this  one.  She 
closed  her  eyes.  There  was  a  sharp  pain  in  her  heart, 
exactly  as  if  she  had  suddenly  crushed  a  finger. 

"The  bank!"  she  exclaimed  in  a  whisper.  "Oh, 
Dick!" 

He  hung  his  head  and  began  to  moan  again,  and  to 
rock  back  and  forth,  and  then  suddenly  he  leaned  over, 
seized  his  head  in  his  two  hands  and  began  to  weep 
violently,  like  a  child.  Strangely  enough,  to  her  own 
surprise,  she  found  herself  calmly  and  coolly  watch- 
ing him.  She  could  see  the  convulsive  movements  of 
his  back  as  he  sobbed ;  she  could  see  his  fingers  vicious- 
ly tearing  at  the  roots  of  his  hair.  She  sat  and  watched 
him  ;  how  long  she  did  not  know.    Then  she  said : 

"Don't  cry,  Dick;  they'll  hear  you  down-stairs." 

He  made  an  effort  to  control  himself,  and  Elizabeth 
suddenly  remembered  that  he  had  told  her  nothing  at 
all. 

"What  do  you  mean,"  she  asked,  "by  the  bank  ?" 

"I  mean,"  he  said  without  uncovering  his  face,  and 
his  hands  muffled  his  words,  "that  I'm — into  it." 

Ah,  yes !  This  was  the  dim,  unposited  thought,  the 
numb,  aching  dread,  the  half-formed,  unnamed,  unad- 
mitted fear  that  had  lurked  beneath  the  thought  of  all 
these  months — underneath  the  father's  thought  and 
hers;  this  was  what  they  had  meant  when  they  ex- 
changed glances,  when  now  and  then  with  dread  they 


'536      THE  .TURN   OF  THE  BALANCE 

approached  the  subject  in  obscure,  mystic  words, 
meaningless  of  themselves,  yet  pregnant  with  a  dread- 
ful and  terrible  import.    And  now — it  had  come ! 

"How  much  ?"  she  forced  herself  to  ask. 

He  nodded. 

"It^s  big.    Several—" 

'What?" 

"Hundreds." 

"Hundreds?" 

He  hesitated,  and  then, 

"Thousands,"  he  said,  tearing  the  word  from  him. 

"How  many  thousands  ?"  she  asked,  when  she  could 
find  the  courage. 

Again  he  cowered  before  the  truth.  She  grew  im- 
patient. 

"Tell  me!"  she  commanded.  "Don't  be  a  coward." 
He  winced.  "Sit  up  and  face  this  thing  and  tell  me. 
How  many  thousands  have  you  stolen  ?" 

She  said  it  in  a  hard,  cold  voice.  He  suddenly  looked 
up,  his  eyes  flashed  an  instant.  He  saw  his  sister  sit- 
ting there,  her  hands  held  calmly  in  her  lap,  her  head 
inclined  a  little,  her  chin  thrust  out,  her  lips  tightly 
compressed,  and  he  could  not  meet  her;  he  collapsed 
again,  and  she  heard  him  say  pitifully,  "Don't  use  that 
word."  Then  he  began  to  weep,  and  as  he  sobbed,  he 
repeated : 

"Oh,  they'll  send  me  to  the  penitentiary — the  peni- 
tentiary— the  penitentiary !" 

The  word  struck  Elizabeth ;  her  gray  eyes  began  to 
fill. 

"How  much,  Dick  ?"  she  asked  gently. 

"Five— a—" 

"More?" 


THE  TURN   OF  THE   BALANCE      537 

He  nodded 

"How  much  more?" 

"Twice  as  much." 

"Ten,  then?" 

He  said  nothing;  he  ceased  sobbing.  Then  sudden- 
ly he  looked  up  and  met  her  glance. 

"Bess,"  he  said,  "it's  twenty-three  thousand !" 

She  stared  at  him  until  her  tears  had  dried.  In  the 
silence  she  could  hear  her  little  watch  ticking  away  on 
the  dressing-table.  The  lights  in  the  room  blazed  with 
a  fierce  glare. 

"Does  Mr.  Hunter  know?" 

"Yes." 

"When  did  he  find  out?" 

"This  morning.    He  called  me  in  this  afternoon." 

"Does  any  one  else  know?" 

"Yes." 

"Who?" 

Dick  hung  his  head  and  began  to  fumble  his  watcH- 
chain. 

"Who,  Dick?" 
,  ;"One  other  man." 

"Who?    Tell  me." 

"Eades." 

She  closed  her  eyes  and  leaned  back;  she  dropped 
her  arms  to  her  sides  and  clutched  her  chair  for  sup- 
port. For  a  long  while  they  did  not  speak.  It  was 
Dick  at  last  who  spoke.  He  seemed  to  have  regained 
his  faculties  and  his  command. 

"Bess,"  he  said,  "Eades  will  have  no  mercy  on  me. 
You  know  that." 

She  admitted  it  with  a  slow  nod  of  her  head,  her 
eyes  still  closed. 


538   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

"Something  must  be  done.  Father — he  must  be  told. 
Will— will  you  tell  him?" 

She  sat  a  moment — it  seemed  a  long  moment — with- 
out moving,  without  opening  her  eyes;  and  Dick  sat 
there  and  watched  her.  Some  of  the  color  had  come 
to  his  face.  His  eyes  were  contracting;  his  face  was 
lined  with  new  scheming. 
.     "Willyou  tell  him,  Bess?" 

She  moved,  opened  her  eyes  slowly,  wearily,  and 
sighed : 

"Yes." 

She  got  up. 

"You're  not  going  to  tell  him  now  ?" 

He  stretched  out  a  hand  as  if  to  detain  her. 

"Yes,  now.  Why  not?"  She  rose  with  difficulty, 
paused,  swayed  a  little  and  then  went  toward  the  door. 
Dick  watched  her  without  a  word.  His  hand  was  in 
the  pocket  of  his  coat.    He  drew  out  a  cigarette. 

She  went  down  the  stairs  holding  the  baluster  tight- 
ly ;  her  palm,  moist  from  her  nervousness,  squeaked  on 
the  rail  as  she  slid  it  along.  She  paused  in  the  library 
door.  Her  father  was  lounging  in  his  chair  under  the 
reading-lamp,  his  legs  stretched  toward  the  fire.  She 
could  just  see  the  top  of  his  head  over  the  chair,  the 
light  falling  on  his  gray  hair. 

"That  you,  Betsy?" 

The  cheer  and  warmth  of  his  tone  smote  Her ;  again 
her  eyes  closed  in  pain. 

"Yes,  it's  I,"  she  said,  trying  for  a  natural  tone,  and 
succeeding,  at  least,  in  putting  into  her  voice  a  great 
love — and  a  great  pity.  She  bent  over  the  back  of  the 
chair,  and  laid  her  hands  on  his  head,  gazing  into  the 
fire.     The  touch  of  her  hands  sent  a  delicious  thrill 


THE   TURN   OF.  THE   BALANCE       539 

through  Ward ;  he  did  not  move  or  speak,  wishing  to 
prolong  the  sensation. 

"Dear,"  she  said,  "I  have  something  to  tell  you/* 

The  delicious  sensation  left  him  instantly. 

"Can  you  bear  some  bad  news — some  bad,  bad 
news  ?" 

His  heart  sank.  He  had  expected  something  like 
this — the  day  would  come,  he  knew,  when  she  would 
leave  him.  But  was  it  not  unusual  ?  Should  not  Eades 
have  spoken — should  not  he  have  asked  him  first  ?  Her 
arms  were  stealing  about  his  neck. 

"Some  bad  news — some  evil  news.  Something 
very — " 

She  had  slipped  around  beside  him  and  leaned  over 
as  if  to  protect  him  from  the  blow  she  was  about  to  de- 
liver. Her  voice  suddenly  grew  unnatural,  tragic, 
sending  a  shudder  through  him  as  she  finished  her  sen- 
tence with  the  one  word : 

"Horrible!" 

"What  is  it  ?"  he  whispered. 

"Be  strong,  dear,  and  brave ;  it's  going  to  hurt  you.** 

"Tell  me,  Bess,**  he  said,  sitting  up  now,  his  man's 
armor  on. 

"It's  about  Dick.** 

"Dick!" 

"Yes,  Dick— and  the  bank!" 

"Oh-h!"  he  groaned,  and,  in  his  knowledge  of  his 
own  world,  he  knew  it  all. 


xxy 

"Ah,  Mr.  Ward,  ah!  Heh!  Won't  you  sit  down, 
sir,  won't  you  sit  down?" 

Hunter  had  risen  from  his  low  hollow  chair,  and 
now  stood  bowing,  or  rather  stooping  automatically  to  a 
posture  lower  than  was  customary  with  him.  The 
day  before  or  that  afternoon,  Ward  would  have 
noticed  Hunter's  advancing  senility.  The  old  banker 
stood  bent  before  his  deep,  well-worn  green  chair,  its 
bottom  sagging  almost  to  the  floor.  He  had  on  large, 
loose  slippers  and  a  long  faded  gown.  The  light  glis- 
tened on  his  head,  entirely  bald,  and  fell  in  bright 
patches  on  the  lean,  yellow  face  that  was  wrinkled  in  a 
smile, — but  a  smile  that  expressed  nothing,  not  even 
mirth.  He  stood  there,  uncertainly,  almost  apologetic- 
ally, making  some  strange  noise  in  his  throat  like  a 
chuckle,  or  like  a  cough.  His  tongue  moved  restlessly 
along  his  thin  lips.  In  his  left  hand  he  held  a  cigar, 
stuck  on  a  toothpick. 

''Won't  you  sit  down,  Mr.  Ward,  won't  you  sit 
down,  sir?" 

The  old  banker,  after  striving  for  this  effect  of  hos- 
pitality, lowered  himself  carefully  into  his  own  deep 
chair.  Ward  se^ed  himself  across  the  hearth,  and 
looked  at  the  shabby  figure,  huddled  in  its  shabby  chair, 
in  the  midst  of  all  the  richness  and  luxury  of  that  im- 
posing library.  About  the  walls  were  magnificent 
bookcases  in  mahogany,  and  behind  their  little  leaded 

540 


THE  TURN   of;  THE   BALANCE       541. 

panes  of  glass  were  rows  of  morocco  bindings.  On  the 
walls  were  paintings,  and  all  about,  in  the  furniture, 
the  rugs,  the  bric-a-brac,  was  the  display  of  wealth 
that  had  learned  to  refine  itself.  And  yet,  in  the  whole 
room  nothing  expressed  the  character  of  that  aged  and 
withered  man,  save  the  shabby  green  chair  he  sat  in,' 
the  shabby  gown  and  slippers  he  wore,  and  the  eco- 
nomical toothpick  to  make  his  cigar  last  longer.  Ward 
remembereH  to  have  heard  Elizabeth  and  her  mother 
— in  some  far  removed  and  happy  day  before  this 
thing  had  come  upon  him — speak  of  the  difficulty  Mrs. 
Hunter  and  Agnes  Hunter  had  with  the  old  man ;  he 
must  have  been  intractable,  he  had  resisted  to  the  end 
and  evidently  come  off  victorious,  for  here  he  sat  with' 
the  trophies  of  his  victory,  determined  to  have  his  own 
way.  And  yet  Ward,  who  was  not  given  to  specula- 
tions of  the  mental  kind,  did  not  think  of  these  things. 
At  another  time  Hunter  might  have  impressed  him 
sadly  as  an  old  man ;  but  not  now ;  this  night  he  was 
feeling  very  old  himself. 

"I  presume,  Mr.  Hunter,"  Ward  began,  "that  you 
imagined  the  object  of  my  visit  when  I  telephoned  you 
an  hour  ago." 

"Oh,  yes,  sir,  yes,  Mr.  Ward.  You  came  to  see  me 
about  that  boy  of  yours !" 

"Exactly,"  said  Ward,  and  he  felt  his  cheek  flush. 

"Bad  boy,  that,  Mr.  Ward,"  said  Hunter  in  his 
squeaking  voice,  grinning  toothlessly. 

"We  needn't  discuss  that,"  said  Ward,  lifting  his 
hand.  "The  situation  is  already  sufficiently  embarrass- 
ing. I  came  to  talk  the  matter  over  as  a  simple  busi- 
ness proposition." 

**yes  ?"  squeaked  Hunter  with  a  rising  inflectioiiy 


542   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

"What  does  the  shortage  amount  to  ?"  Ward  leaned 
toward  him. 

"In  round  numbers  ?" 

"No/'  Ward  was  abrupt.    "In  dollars  and  cents." 

Hunter  pursed  his  lips.  Ward's  last  words  seemed 
to  stimulate  his  thought. 

"Let  us  see,"  he  said,  "let  us  see.  If  I  remember 
rightly" — and  Ward  knew  that  he  remembered  it  to 
the  last  decimal  point — "it  amounts  to  twenty-four 
thousand,  six  hundred  and  seventy-eight  dollars  and 
twenty-nine  cents." 

Ward  made  no  reply;  he  was  leaning  forward,  his 
elbows  on  his  knees,  gazing  into  the  fire.  He  did  not 
move,  and  yet  he  knew  that  the  old  banker  was 
shrewdly  eying  him. 

"That,  of  course,"  said  Hunter  with  the  effect  of  an 
afterthought,  "is  the  principal  sum.    The  interest — " 

"Yes,  that's  all  right,"  said  Ward.  Hunter's  last 
words,  which  at  any  other  time  would  have  infuriated 
him,  in  this  instance  made  him  happy ;  they  reassured 
him,  gave  him  hope.  He  knew  now  that  the  old 
banker  was  ready  to  compromise.  Then  suddenly  he 
remembered  that  he  had  not  smoked  that  evening,  and 
he  drew  his  cigar-case  from  his  pocket. 

"Do  you  mind,  sir,  if  I  smoke?" 
■  "Not  in  the  least,  Mr.  Ward,  not  in  the  least,  sir; 
delighted  to  have  you.     Make  yourself  perfectly  at 
home,  sir." 

He  waved  his  long,  thin,  transparent  hand  grandly 
and  hospitably  at  Ward,  and  smiled  his  toothless  smile. 

"Perhaps  you'd  smoke,  Mr.  Hunter." 

Ward  proffered  him  the  case  and  reflected  instantly 
with  delight  that  the  cigar  was  a  large^  strong  Havana, 


THE    TURN    OF   THE   BALANCE       543 

rich  and  heavy,  much  heavier  than  the  old  man  was  ac- 
customed to,  for  from  its  odor  Ward  knew  that  the 
cigar  Hunter  was  consuming  to  the  last  whiff  was  of 
cheap  domestic  tobacco,  if  it  was  of  tobacco  at  all. 

"Thank  you,  sir,"  said  Hunter,  delighted,  leaning 
out  of  his  chair  and  selecting  a  cigar  with  care.  "I 
usually  limit  myself  to  one  cigar  of  an  evening — ^but 
with  you — '* 

"Yes,"  thought  Ward,  "I  know  why  you  limit  your- 
self to  one,  and  I  hope  this  one  will  make  you  sick." 

When  Ward  had  smoked  a  moment,  he  said : 

"Mr.  Hunter,  if  I  reimburse  you,  what  assurance 
can  I  have  that  there  will  be  no  prosecution  ?" 

"Heh,  hell."  The  old  man  made  that  queer  noise  in 
his  throat  again.  "Heh,  heh.  Well,  Mr.  Ward,  you 
know  you  are  already  on  your  son's  bond." 

"For  ten  thousand,  yes — not  for  twenty-four." 

"Quite  right!"  said  Hunter,  taken  somewhat  aback. 
Then  they  were  silent. 

"What  assurance  can  you  give  me,  Mr.  Hunter?" 
He  took  the  cigar  from  his  lips  and  looked  directly  at 
Hunter. 

"Well,  Fm  afraid,  Mr.  Ward,  that  that  has  passed 
out  of  my  hands.    You  see — " 

"You  told  Fades ;  yes,  I  know !"  Ward  was  angry, 
but  he  realized  the  necessity  for  holding  his  temper. 

"Why  did  you  do  that,  Mr.  Hunter,  if  I  may  ask? 
What  did  you  expect  to  gain?" 

Hunter  made  the  queer  noise  in  his  throat  and  then 
he  stammered : 

"Well,  Mr.  Ward,  you  must  understand  that — heh-— 
our  Trust  Company  is  a  state  institution — and  I  felt  it 
to  \k  my  duty,  a§  ^  citizen,  70U  know,  to  report  anj^ 


'544      THE   TURN   OF.  THE   BALANCE 

irregularities  to  the  proper  official.  Merely  my  duty, 
as  a  citizen,  Mr.  Ward,  you  understand,  as  a  citizen. 
Painful,  to  be  sure,  but  my  duty." 

Ward  might  nQt  have  been  able  to  conceal  the  dis- 
gust he  felt  for  this  old  man  if  he  had  not,  for  the 
first  time  that  evening,  been  reminded  by  Hunter's  own 
words  that  the  affair  was  not  one  to  come  within  the 
federal  statutes.  What  Hunter's  motive  had  been  in 
reporting  the  matter  to  Eades  so  promptly,  he  could 
not  imagine.  It  would  seem  that  he  could  have  dealt 
better  by  keeping  the  situation  in  his  own  hands ;  that 
he  could  have  held  the  threat  of  prosecution  over  his 
head  as  a  weapon  quite  as  menacing  as  this,  and  cer- 
tainly one  he  could  more  easily  control.  But  Hunter 
was  mysterious;  he  waded  in  the  water,  and  Ward 
could  not  follow  his  tracks.  He  was  sure  of  but  one 
thing,  and  that  was  that  the  reason  Hunter  had  given 
was  not  the  real  reason. 

"You  might  have  waited,  it  seems  to  me,  Mr.  Hun- 
ter," he  said.  "You  might  have  had  some  mercy  on 
the  boy." 

Ward  did  not  see  the  peculiar  smile  that  played  on 
Hunter's  face. 

"If  I  remember,  Mr.  Ward,  you  had  a  young  man  in 
your  employ  once,  who — " 

Ward  could  scarcely  repress  a  groan. 
.  "I  know,  I  know,"  he  hastened  to  confess. 

"Yes,  exactly,"  said  Hunter,  his  chuckle  now  indi- 
cating a  dry  satisfaction.  "You  did  it  as  a  duty — as  I 
did — our  duties  as  citizens,  Mr.  Ward,  our  duties  as 
citizens,  and  our  duties  to  the  others  in  our  employ — 
we  must  make  examples  for  them." 

"Yes.  Well,  it's  different  when  your  own  boy  is  se- 
lected tQ  affgrd  the  example,"   Ward  ^aid  this  with  a 


THE  TURN  of:  THE   BALANCE      545 

toucH  of  his  humor,  but  became  serious  and  sober 
^again  as  he  added : 

"And  I  hope,  Mr.  Hunter,  that  this  affair  will  never 
cause  you  the  sorrow  and  regret — yes,  the  remorse — 
that  that  has  caused  me." 

Hunter  looked  at  Ward  furtively,  as  if  he  could  not 
understand  how  such  things  could  cause  any  one  re- 
gret. Out  of  this  want  of  understanding,  however,  he 
could  but  repeat  his  former  observation : 

"But  our  duty,  Mr.  Ward.  We  must  do  our  duty— 
heh — ^heh — as  citizens,  remember." 

He  was  examining  the  little  gilt-and-red  band  on  the 
cigar  Ward  had  given  him.  He  had  left  it  on  the 
cigar,  and  now  picked  at  it  with  a  long,  corrugated 
finger-nail,  as  if  he  found  a  pleasure  and  a  novelty  in 
it.  Ward  was  willing  to  let  the  subject  drop.  He 
knew  that  Hunter  had  been  moved  by  no  civic  im- 
pulse in  reporting  the  fact  to  Eades ;  he  did  not  know 
what  his  motive  had  been;  perhaps  he  never  would 
know.  It  was  enough  now  that  the  harm  had  been 
done,  and  in  his  practical  way  he  was  wondering  what 
could  be  done  next.  He  suddenly  made  a  movement 
as  if  he  would  go,  a  movement  that  caused  Hunter  to 
glance  at  him  in  some  concern. 

"Well,"  said  Ward,  "of  course,  if  it  has  gone  that 
far,  if  it  is  really  out  of  your  hands,  I  presume  the 
only  thing  is  to  let  matters  take  their  course.  To  be 
sure,  I  had  hoped — " 

"Keep  your  seat,  Mr.  Ward,  keep  your  seat.  It  is  a 
long  time  since  I  have  had  the  pleasure  of  entertaining 
you  in  my  home." 

Entertaining !  Ward  could  have  seized  the  wizened 
pipe  of  the  old  man  and  throttled  him  there  in  his 
shabby  green-baize  chair. 


546   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

"Have  you  anything  to  suggest  ?"  asked  Ward. 

"Would  not  the  suggestion  better  emanate  from 
you  ?^*  The  old  banker  waved  a  withered  hand  toward 
Ward  with  a  gesture  of  invitation.  Ward  remembered 
that  gesture  and  understood  it.  He  knew  that  now 
they  were  getting  down  to  business. 

"I  have  no  proposition,"  said  Ward.  "I  am  anxious 
to  save  my  son — and  my  family."  A  shade  of  pain 
darkened  his  countenance.  "I  am  willing  to  make 
good  the — er — shortage."  How  all  such  words  hurt 
and  stung  just  now !  "Provided,  of  course,  the  matter 
could  be  dropped  there." 

The  old  banker  pondered. 

"I  should  like  to  help  you  in  your  difficulty,  Mr. 
Ward,"  he  said.    "I—" 

Ward  waited. 

"I  should  be  willing  to  recommend  to  Mr.  Eades  a 
discontinuance  of  any  action.  What  his  attitude  would 
be,  I  am  not,  of  course,  able  to  say.  You  understand 
my  position." 

"Very  well,"  said  Ward  in  the  brisk  business  way 
habitual  with  him.  "You  see  Eades,  have  him  agree 
to  drop  the  whole  thing,  and  I'll  give  you  my  check  to 
cover  the — deficiency." 

The  banker  thought  a  moment  and  said  finally : 

"I  shall  have  an  interview  with  Mr.  Eades  in  the 
morning,  communicating  the  result  to  you  at  eleven 
o'clock." 

Ward  rose. 

"Must  you  go?"  asked  Hunter  in  surprise,  as  if  the 
visit  had  been  but  a  social  one.  He  rose  tremblingly, 
and  stood  looking  about  him  with  his  mirthless  grin, 
and  Ward  departed  without  ceremony. 


XXVI 

All  the  way  to  the  court-house  Elizabeth's  heart 
failed  her  more  and  more.  She  had  often  been  in  fear 
of  Eades,  but  never  had  she  so  feared  him  as  she  did 
to-day ;  the  fear  became  almost  an  acute  terror.  And, 
once  in  the  big  building,  the  fear  increased.  Though 
the  court-house,  doubtless,  was  meant  for  her  as  much 
as  for  any  one,  she  felt  that  alien  sense  that  women 
still  must  feel  in  public  places.  Curiosity  and  in- 
credulity were  shown  in  the  glances  the  loafers  of  the 
corridors  bestowed  on  this  young  woman,  who,  in  her 
suit  of  dark  green,  with  gray  furs  and  muff,  attracted 
such  unusual  attention.  Elizabeth  detected  the  looks 
that  were  exchanged,  and,  because  of  her  sensitiveness, 
imagined  them  to  be  of  more  significance  than  they 
were.  She  saw  the  sign  "Marriage  Licenses"  down 
one  gloomy  hallway ;  then  in  some  way  she  thought  of 
the  divorce  court;  then  she  thought  of  the  criminal 
court,  with  its  shadow  now  creeping  toward  her  own 
home,  and  when  she  reflected  how  much  cause  for  this 
staring  curiosity  there  might  be  if  the  curious  ones  but 
knew  all  she  knew,  her  heart  grew  heavier.  But  she 
hurried  along,  found  Eades's  office,  and,  sending  in  her 
card,  sat  down  in  the  outer  room  to  wait. 

She  had  chosen  the  most  obscure  corner  and  she  sat 
there,  hoping  that  no  one  would  recognize  her,  filled 
with  confusion  whenever  any  one  looked  at  her,  or  she 
suspected  any  one  of  looking  at  her,  and  imagining  all 

547 


548      THE  TURN   OF]  THE   BALANCE 

the  dreadful  significances  that  might  attach  to  her 
visit.  While  she  waited,  she  had  time  to  think  over  the 
last  eighteen  hours.  They  had  found  it  necessary  to 
tell  her  mother,  and  that  lady  had  spent  the  whole 
morning  in  hysteria,  alternately  wondering  what  peo- 
ple would  say  when  the  disgrace  became  known,  and 
caressing  and  leaning  on  Dick,  who  bravely  remained 
at  home  and  assumed  the  manly  task  of  comforting  and 
reassuring  his  mother.  Elizabeth  had  awaited  in  sus- 
pense the  conclusion  of  Hunter's  visit  to  Eades,  and 
she  had  gone  down  town  to  hear  from  her  father  the 
result  of  Hunter's  effort.  She  was  not  surprised  when 
her  father  told  her  that  Hunter  reported  failure; 
neither  of  them  had  had  much  faith  in  Hunter  and 
less  in  Eades.  But  when  they  had  discussed  it  at  the 
luncheon  they  had  in  a  private  room  at  the  club,  and 
after  the  discussion  had  proved  so  inconclusive,  she 
broached  the  plan  that  had  come  to  her  in  the  wakeful 
night, — the  plan  she  had  been  revolving  in  her  mind 
all  the  morning. 

"My  lawyer?"  her  father  had  said.  "He  could  do 
nothing — in  a  case  like  this." 

"I  suppose  not,"  Elizabeth  had  said.  "Besides,  it 
would  only  place  the  facts  in  the  possession  of  one 
more  person." 

"Yes." 

"We  might  consult  Gordon  Marriott.  He  would 
sympathize — and  help." 

"Yes,  that  might  do." 

"But  not  yet,"  she  had  said,  "Not  till  Fve  tried  my 
plan." 

"Your  plan?    What  is  it?" 

"To  see  John  Eades — for  me  to  see  John  Eades." 


THE  TURN   OF  THE   BALANCE      '549 

She  had  hung  her  head — she  could  not  help  it,  and 
her  father  had  shown  some  indignation. 

"Not  for  worlds !"  he  had  said.    "Not  for  worlds !" 

"But  I'm  going." 

"No !    It  wouldn't  be  fitting !" 

"But  I'm  going." 

"Then  I'll  go  along." 

"No,  I'll  go  alone." 

He  had  protested,  of  course,  but  his  very  next  words 
showed  that  he  was  ready  to  give  in. 

"When  shall  you  go?"  he  asked. 

"Now.  There  isn't  much  time.  The  grand  jury — 
what  is  it  the  grand  jury  does?" 

"It  sits  next  week,  and  Eades  will  lay  the  case  be- 
fore it  then — unless — " 

"Unless  I  can  stop  him." 

There  had  been  a  little  intense,  dramatic  moment 
when  the  waiter  was  out  of  the  room  and  she  had  risen, 
buttoning  her  jacket  and  drawing  on  her  gloves,  and 
her  father  had  stood  before  her. 

"Bess,"  he  said,  "tell  me,  are  you  contemplating  some 
— ^horrible  sacrifice  ?"  He  had  put  his  finger  under  her 
chin  and  elevated  it,  in  the  eifort  to  make  her  look  him 
in  the  eyes.  She  had  paled  slightly  and  then  smiled — 
and  kissed  him. 

"Never  mind  about  me,  papa." 

And  then  she  had  hastened  away — and  here  she  was. 

The  tall  door  lettered  "The  Prosecuting  Attorney" 
was  closed,  but  she  did  not  have  to  wait  long  before  it 
opened  and  three  men  came  out,  evidently  hurried 
away  by  Eades,  who  hastened  to  Elizabeth's  side  and 
said : 

"Pardon  me  if  I  kept  you  waiting," 


550   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

They  entered  the  private  office,  and,  at  her  sign,  he 
closed  the  door.  She  toolc  the  chair  beside  his  desk, 
and  he  sat  down  and  lool<ed  at  her  expectantly.  He 
was  plainly  ill  at  ease,  and  this  encouraged  her.  She 
was  alive  to  the  strangeness  of  this  visit,  to  the 
strangeness  of  the  place  and  the  situation;  her  heart 
was  in  her  throat ;  she  feared  she  could  not  speak,  but 
she  made  a  great  effort  and  plunged  at  once  into  the 
subject. 

"You  know  what  brings  me  here.'* 

"I  presume — " 

"Yes,"  she  said  before  he  could  finish.  He  inclined 
his  head  in  an  understanding  that  would  spare  painful 
explanation.  His  heart  was  going  rapidly.  He  would 
have  gloried  in  having  her  near  him  in  any  other 
place ;  but  here  in  this  place,  on  this  subject !  He  must 
not  forget  his  position ;  he  must  assume  his  official  per- 
sonality; the  separation  of  his  relations  had  become  a 
veritable  passion  with  him. 

"I  came,"  she  said,  "to  ask  a  favor — a  very  great 
favor.    Will  you  grant  it  ?" 

She  leaned  forward  slightly,  but  with  a  latent  in- 
tensity that  showed  all  her  eagerness  and  concern.  He 
was  deeply  troubled. 

"You  know  I  would  do  anything  in  my  power  for 
you,"  he  said.  His  heart  was  sincere  and  glowing — 
but  his  mind  instantly  noted  the  qualification  implied 
in  the  words,  "my  power." 

And  Elizabeth,  with  her  quick  intelligence,  caught 
the  significance  of  those  words.  She  closed  her  eyes 
an  instant.  How  hard  he  made  it !  Still,  he  was  cer- 
tainly within  his  rights. 

"I  want  you  to  let  my  brother  go,"  she  said. 


,ff7 


"  I  want  you  to  let  my  brother  go,"  she  said      Page  ^^o 


OF   THE 

UNIVERSITV 

OF 


THE   TURN   OF   THE   BALANCE       551 

He  compressed  his  lips,  and  she  noted  how  very  thin, 
how  resolute  they  were. 

"It  does  not  altogether  rest  with  me." 

"You  evade,"  she  said.  "Don't  treat  me — as  if  I 
were  some  politician."  She  was  surprised  at  her  own 
temerity.  With  some  Httle  fear  that  he  might  mistake 
her  meaning,  she,  nevertheless,  kept  her  gray  eyes 
fixed  on  him,  and  went  on : 

"I  came  to  ask  you  not  to  lay  his  case  before  the 
grand  jury.  I  believe  that  is  the  extent  of  your  power. 
I  really  don't  know  about  such  things."  Her  eyes  fell, 
and  she  gently  stroked  the  soft  gray  fur  of  her  mufif, 
as  she  permitted  herself  this  woman's  privilege  of 
pleading  weakness.  "No  one  need  be  the  loser — my 
father  will  make  good  the — shortage.  All  will  be  as 
if  it  never  had  been — all  save  this  horrible  thing  that 
has  come  to  us — that  must  remain,  of  course,  for  ever/* 

Then  she  let  the  silence  fall  between  them. 

"You  are  asking  me  to  do  a  great  deal." 

"It  seems  a  very  little  thing  to  me,  so  far  as  you  are 
concerned ;  to  us — to  me — of  course,  it  is  a  great  thing ; 
it  means  our  family,  our  name,  my  father,  my  mother, 
myself — leaving  Dick  out  of  it  altogether." 

Eades  turned  away  in  pain.  It  was  evident  that  she 
had  said  her  all,  and  that  he  must  speak. 

"You  forget  one  other  thing,"  he  said  presently. 

"What?" 

"The  rights  of  society."  He  was  conscious  of  a  cer- 
tain inadequacy  in  his  words;  they  sounded  to  him 
weak,  and  not  at  all  as  it  seemed  they  should  have 
sounded.  She  did  not  reply  at  once,  but  he  knew  that 
she  was  looking  at  him,  Was  that  look  of  hers  a  look 
of  scorn  ? 


552      THE  TURN   OF,  THE  BALANCE 

''I  do  not  care  one  bit  for  the  rights  of  society,"  she 
said.  He  knew  that  she  spoke  with  all  her  spirit.  But 
she  softened  almost  instantly  and  added,  ''I  do  care,  of 
course,  for  its  opinion." 

Hades  was  not  introspective  enough  to  realize  his 
own  superlative  regard  for  society's  opinion;  it  was 
easier  to  cover  this  regard  with  words  about  its  rights. 

*'But  society  has  rights,"  he  said,  "and  society  has 
placed  me  here  to  see  those  rights  conserved." 

"What  rights  ?"  she  asked. 

"To  have  the  wrong-doer  punished." 

"And  the  innocent  as  well?  You  would  punisH  my 
mother,  my  father  and  me,  although,  of  course,  we  al- 
ready have  our  punishment."  She  waited  a  moment 
and  then  the  cry  was  torn  from  her. 

"Can't  you  see  that  merely  having  to  come  here  on 
such  an  errand  is  punishment  enough  for  me  ?" 

She  was  bending  forward,  and  her  eyes  blinked  back 
the  tears.  He  had  never  loved  her  so;  he  could  not 
bear  to  look  at  her  sitting  there  in  such  anguish. 

"My  God,  yes!"  he  exclaimed.  He  got  up  hastily, 
plunging  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  and  walking  away 
to  his  window,  looked  out  a  moment,  then  turned ;  and 
as  he  spoke  his  voice  vibrated : 

"Don't  you  know  how  this  makes  me  suffer?  Don't 
you  know  that  nothing  I  ever  had  to  face  troubles  me 
as  this  does?" 

She  did  not  reply. 

"If  you  don't,"  he  added,  coming  near  and  speaking 
in  a  low,  guarded  tone,  "you  don't  know  how — I  love 
you." 

She  raised  her  hand  to  protest,  but  she  did  not  look 
Up.     He  checked  himself,     She  lowered  her  gloy^d 


THE  TURN  OR  THE   BALANCE      553 

Hand,  and  he  wondered  in  a  second  of  great  agitation 
if  that  gesture  meant  the  withdrawal  of  the  protest. 

"Then — then,"  she  said  very  deliberately,  "do  this 
for  me." 

She  raised  her  muff  to  hide  the  face  that  flamed 
scarlet.  He  took  one  step  toward  her,  paused,  strug- 
gled for  mastery  of  himself.  He  remembered  now  that 
the  principle — ^the  principle  that  had  guided  him  in  the 
conduct  of  his  office,  required  that  he  must  make  his 
decisions  slowly,  calmly,  impersonally,  with  the  cold 
deliberation  of  the  law  he  was  there  to  impersonate. 
And  here  was  the  woman  he  loved,  the  woman  whom 
he  had  longed  to  make  his  wife,  the  wife  who  could 
crown  his  success — here,  at  last,  ready  to  say  the  word 
she  had  so  long  refused  to  say — the  word  he  had  so 
long  wished  to  hear. 

"Elizabeth,"  he  said  simply,  "you  know  how  I  have 
loved  you,  how  I  love  you  now.  This  may  not  be  the 
time  or  the  place  for  that — I  do  not  wish  to  take  an 
advantage  of  you — ^but  you  do  not  know  some  other 
things.  I  have  never  felt  at  all  worthy  of  you.  I  do 
not  now,  but  I  have  felt  that  I  could  at  least  offer  you 
a  clean  hand  and  a  clean  heart.  I  have  tried  in  this 
office,  with  all  its  responsibilities,  to  do  my  duty  with- 
out fear  or  favor ;  thus  far  I  have  done  so.  It  has  been 
my  pride  that  nothing  has  swerved  me  from  the  path 
of  that  plain  duty.  I  have  consoled  myself  ever  since 
I  knew  I  loved  you — and  that  was  long  before  I  dared 
to  tell  you — that  I  could  at  least  go  to  you  with  that 
record.  And  now  you  ask  me  to  stultify  myself,  to  give 
all  that  up !  It  is  hard — too  hard !"  He  turned  away. 
"I  don't  suppose  I  make  it  clear.  Perhaps  it  seems  a 
little  thing  to  you.  To  me  it  is  a  big  thing ;  it  is  all  I 
have," 


554   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

Elizabeth  was  conscious  for  an  instant  of  nothing 
but  a  gratitude  to  him  for  turning  away.  She  pressed 
her  muff  against  her  face;  the  soft  fur,  a  Httle  cold, 
was  comforting  to  her  hot  cheeks.  She  felt  a  humilia- 
tion now  that  she  feared  she  never  could  survive ;  she 
felt  a  regret,  too,  that  she  had  ever  let  the  situation 
take  this  personal  and  intimate  turn.  For  an  instant 
she  was  disposed  to  blame  Fades,  but  she  was  too  just 
for  that;  she  knew  that  she  alone  was  to  blame;  she 
remembered  that  it  was  this  very  appeal  she  had  come 
to  make,  and  she  contemned  herself — despised  herself. 
And  then  in  a  desperate  effort  to  regain  her  self-re- 
spect, she  tried  to  change  the  trend  of  the  argument, 
to  restore  it  to  the  academic,  the  impersonal,  to  strug- 
gle back  to  the  other  plane  with  him,  and  she  said : 

"If  it  could  do  any  good !  If  I  could  see  what  good 
it  does !" 

"What!"  he  exclaimed,  turning  to  her.  "What 
good ?    What  good  does  any  of  my  work  do?" 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know."  As  she  said  this,  she 
looked  up  at  him,  met  his  eye  with  a  boldness  she  de- 
spised in  herself.  Down  in  her  heart  she  was  conscious 
of  a  self-abasement  that  was  almost  complete ;  she  real- 
ized the  histrionic  in  her  attitude,  and  in  this  feeling, 
determined  now  to  brave  it  out;  she  added  bitterly: 
"None,  I  should  say." 

"None !"  He  repeated  the  word,  aghast.  "None !  Do 
you  say  that  all  this  work  I  have  been  doing  for  the 
betterment,  the  purification  of  society  does  no  good?" 

"No  good,"  she  said ;  "it  does  no  good ;  it  only  makes 
more  suffering  in  the  world."  And  she  thought  of  all 
she  was  just  then  suffering. 

"Where — "  he  could  not  catch  his  breath — "where 
did  you  get  that  idea?"* 


THE  TURN   OF  THE  BALANCE      555 

"In  the  night — in  tHe  long,  horrible  night."  Though 
she  was  alive  to  the  dramatic  import  of  her  words  and 
this  scene,  she  was  speaking  with  sincerity,  and  she 
shuddered. 

Eades  stood  and  looked  at  her.  He  could  do  noth- 
ing else ;  he  could  say  nothing,  think  nothing. 

In  Elizabeth's  heart  there  was  now  but  one  desire, 
and  that  was  to  get  away,  to  bring  this  horror  to  an 
end.  She  had  come  to  save  her  brother ;  now  she  was 
conscious  that  she  must  save  herself;  she  felt  that  she 
had  hopelessly  involved  the  situation;  it  was  beyond 
remedy  now,  and  she  must  get  away.    She  rose. 

*T  have  come  here,  I  have  humiliated  myself  to  ask 
you  to  do  a  favor  for  me,"  she  said.  "You  are  not 
ready  to  do  it,  I  see."  She  was  glad ;  she  felt  now  the 
dreadful  anxiety  of  one  who  is  about  to  escape  an  aw- 
ful dilemma.  "To  me  it  seems  a  very  simple  little 
thing,  but—" 

She  was  going. 

"Elizabeth!"  he  said,  "let  me  think  it  over.  I  can 
not  think  straight  just  now.  You  know  how  I  want  to 
help  you.  You  know  I  would  do  anything — anything 
for  you !" 

"Anything  but  this,"  she  said.  "This  little  thing 
that  hurts  no  one,  a  thing  that  can  bring  nothing  but 
happiness  to  the  world,  that  can  save  my  father  and 
my  mother  and  me — a  thing,  perhaps  the  only  thing 
that  can  save  my  poor,  weak,  erring  brother — who 
knows  ?" 

"Let  me  think  it  over,"  he  pleaded.  "I'll  think  it 
over  to-night — Ell  send  you  word  in  the  morning." 

She  turned  then  and  went  away. 


XXVII 

Elizabeth  let  the  note  fall  in  her  lap.  A  new  happi- 
ness suddenly  enveloped  her.  She  felt  the  relief  of  an 
escape.    The  note  ran : 

Dear  Elizabeth: 

I  have  thought  it  all  over.  I  did  not  sleep  all  night,  thinking 
of  it,  and  of  you.  But — I  can  not  do  what  you  ask ;  I  could  not 
love  you  as  I  do  if  I  were  false  to  my  duty.  You  know  how 
hard  it  is  for  me  to  come  to  this  conclusion,  how  hard  it  is  for 
me  to  write  thus.  It  sounds  harsh  and  brutal  and  cold,  I  know. 
It  is  not  meant  to  be.  I  know  how  you  have  suffered ;  I  wish 
you  could  know  how  I  have  suffered  and  how  I  shall  suffer. 
I  can  promise  you  one  thing,  however :  that  I  shall  do  only  my 
duty,  my  plain,  simple  duty,  as  lightly  as  I  can,  and  nothing 
now  can  give  me  such  joy  as  to  find  the  outcome  one  perhaps 
I  ought  not  to  wish — one  which  in  any  other  case  would  be 
considered  a  defeat  for  me.  But  I  ask  you  to  think  of  me, 
whatever  may  come  to  pass,  as 

Your  sincere 

John  Eades. 

She  leaned  back  in  her  chair,  and  closed  Her  eyes; 
a  sense  of  rest  and  comfort  came  to  her.  She  was  con- 
tent for  a  while  simply  to  realize  that  rest  and  comfort. 
She  opened  her  eyes  and  looked  out  of  the  window 
over  the  little  triangular  park  with  its  bare  trees;  the 
sky  was  solid  gray;  there  was  a  gray  tone  in  the  at- 
mosphere, and  the  soft  light  was  grateful  and  rest- 
ful to  her  eyes,  tired  and  sensitive  as  they  were  from 
the  loss  of  so  much  sleep.  She  felt  that  she  could  lie 
back  then  and  sleep  profoundly.  Yet  she  did  not  wish 
to  sleep — she  wished  to  be  awake  and  enjoy  this  sensa- 

556 


THE   TURN   OF  THE   BALANCE      55; 

tion  of  relief,  of  escape.  After  that  night  and  that  day 
and  this  last  night  of  suspense,  it  was  like  a  reprieve — 
she  started  and  her  face  darkened, — the  thought  of 
reprieve  made  her  somehow  think  of  Archie  Koerner. 
This  event  had  quite  driven  him  out  of  her  mind,  com- 
ing as  it  had  just  at  the  climax.  She  had  not  thought 
of  him  for — ^how  long?  And  Gusta!  It  brought  the 
thought  of  her,  too.  Suddenly  she  remembered,  with  a 
dim  sense  of  confusion  that,  at  some  time  long  ago, 
she  and  Gusta  had  talked  of  Archie's  first  trouble. 
Had  they  mentioned  Dick?  No,  but  she  had  thought 
of  him!  How  strange!  And  then  her  thoughts  re- 
turned to  Eades,  and  she  lifted  the  note,  and  glanced 
at  it.  She  recalled  the  night  at  the  Fords',  and  his  pro- 
posal, her  hesitation  and  his  waiting.  She  let  the  note 
fall  again  and  sighed  audibly — a  sigh  that  expressed 
her  content.  Then  suddenly  she  started  up !  She  had 
forgotten  Dick — the  trouble — ^her  father! 

Marriott  knew  what  she  had  to  say  almost  before 
the  first  sentence  had  fallen  from  her  lips. 

"I'll  not  pretend  to  be  surprised,  Elizabeth,"  he  said. 
"I  haven't  expected  it,  but  now  I  can  see  that  it  was 
inevitable." 

He  looked  away  from  her. 

"Poor  boy !"  he  said.  "How  I  pity  him !  He  has 
done  nothing  more  than  to  adopt  the  common  stan- 
dard; he  has  accepted  the  common  ideal.  He  has  be- 
lieved them  when  they  told  him  by  word  and  deed 
that  possession — money — could  bring  happiness  and^ 
that  nothing  else  can !    Well — it's  too  bad." 

EHzabeth's  head  was  drooping  and  the  tears  were 
streaming  down  her  cheeks.    He  pretended  not  to  see. 


558   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE  . 

"Poor  boy !"  he  went  on.  "Well,  we  must  save  him, 
that's  all." 

She  looked  up  at  him,  her  gray  eyes  wide  and  their 
lashes  drenched  in  their  tears. 

"How,  Gordon?" 

"Well,  I  don't  know,  but  some  way."  He  studied  a 
moment.    "Eades — well,  of  course,  he's  hopeless." 

She  could  never  tell  him  of  her  visit  to  Eades ;  she 
had  told  him  merely  of  Hunter's  interview  with  the 
prosecutor.  But  she  was  surprised  to  see  how  Marriott, 
instantly,  could  tell  just  what  Eades  would  do. 

"Eades  is  just  a  prosecutor,  that's  all,"  Marriott 
went  on.  "Heavens !  How  the  business  has  hardened 
him !  How  it  does  pull  character  to  shreds !  And  yet 
— ^he's  like  Dick — he's  pursuing  another  ideal  that's 
very  popular.  They'll  elect  Eades  congressman  or 
governor  or  something  for  his  severity.  But  let's  not 
waste  time  on  him.  Let's  think."  He  sat  there,  his 
brows  knit,  and  Elizabeth  watched  him. 

"I  wish  I  could  fathom  old  Hunter.  He  had  some 
motive  in  reporting  it  to  Eades  so  soon.  Of  course, 
if  it  wasn't  for  that  it  would  be  easy.  Hm — "  He 
thought.  "We'll  have  to  work  through  Hunter.  He's 
our  only  chance.  I  must  find  out  all  there  is  to  know 
about  Hunter.  Now,  Elizabeth,  I'll  have  to  shut  my- 
self up  and  do  some  thinking.  The  grand  jury  doesn't 
meet  for  ten  days — we  have  time — " 

"They  won't  arrest  Dick?" 

"Oh,  it's  not  likely  now.  Tell  him  to  stay  close  at 
home — don't  let  him  skip  out,  whatever  he  does.  That 
would  be  fatal.  And  one  thing  more — let  me  do  the 
worrying."    He  smiled. 

Marriott  had  hoped,  when  the  murder  trial  was  over. 


THE   TURN   OF  THE   BALANCE      559 

tHat  he  could  rest ;  he  had  set  In  motion  the  machinery 
that  was  to  take  the  case  up  on  error ;  he  had  ordered 
his  transcripts  and  prepared  the  petition  in  error  and 
the  motions,  and  he  was  going  to  have  them  all  ready 
and  file  them  at  the  last  moment,  so  that  he  might  be 
sure  of  delay.  Archie  had  been  taken  to  the  peniten- 
tiary, and  Marriott  was  glad  of  that,  for  it  relieved  him 
of  the  necessity  of  going  to  the  jail  so  often;  that  was 
always  an  ordeal.  He  had  but  one  more  visit  to  make 
there, — Curly  had  sent  for  him;  but  Curly  never  de- 
manded much.  But  now — here  was  a  task  more  diffi- 
cult than  ever.  It  provoked  him  almost  to  anger;  he 
resented  it.  It  was  always  so,  he  told  himself;  every- 
thing comes  at  once — and  then  he  thought  of  Eliza- 
beth.   It  was  for  her ! 

He  thought  of  nothing  else  all  that  day.  He  in- 
quired about  Hunter  of  every  one  he  met.  He  went 
to  his  friends,  trying  to  learn  all  he  could.  He  picked 
up  much,  of  course,  for  there  was  much  to  be  told  of 
such  a  wealthy  and  prominent  man  as  Amos  Hunter, 
especially  one  with  such  striking  personal  character- 
istics. But  he  found  no  clue,  no  hint  that  he  felt  was 
promising.    Then  he  suddenly  remembered  Curly. 

He  found  him  in  another  part  of  the  jail,  where  he 
had  been  immured  away  from  Archie  in  order  that  they 
might  not  communicate  with  each  other.  With  his 
wide  knowledge  and  deeper  nature  Curly  was  a  more 
interesting  personality  than  Archie.  He  took  his  pre- 
dicament with  that  philosophy  Marriott  had  observed 
and  was  beginning  to  admire  in  these  fellows ;  he  had 
no  complaints  to  make. 

"Fm  not  worried,"  he  said.  "I'll  come  out  all  right. 
Eades  has  nothing  on  me,  and  he  knows  it.    They're 


56o   THE  TURN  OB  THE  BALANCE 

holding  me  for  a  bluff.  They'll  keep  me,  of  course, 
until  they  get  Archie  out  of  the  way,  then  they'll  put 
me  on  the  street.  It  wouldn't  do  to  drop  my  case  now. 
They'll  just  stall  along  with  it  until  then.  Of  course — 
there's  one  danger — "  he  looked  up  and  smiled  curi- 
ously, and  to  the  question  in  Marriott's  eyes,  he  an- 
swered : 

"You  see  they  can't  settle  me  for  this ;  but  they  might 
dig  up  something  somewhere  else  and  put  me  away  on 
that.    You  see  the  danger." 

Marriott  nodded,  not  knowing  just  what  to  say. 

"But  we  must  take  the  bitter  with  the  sweet,  as  Ed- 
die Dean  used  to  say."  Curly  spoke  as  if  the  observa- 
tion were  original  with  Dean.  "But,  Mr.  Marriott, 
there's  one  or  two  things  I  want  you  to  attend  to  for 
me." 

"Well,"  consented  Marriott  helplessly,  already  over- 
burdened with  others'  cares. 

"I  don't  like  to  trouble  you,  but  there's  no  one  I  like 
to  trust,  and  they  won't  let  me  see  any  one." 

He  hesitated  a  moment. 

"It's  this  way,"  he  presently  went  on.  "I've  got  a 
woman — Jane,  they  call  her.  She's  a  good  woman, 
you  see,  though  she  has  some  bad  tricks.  She's  sore 
now,  and  hanging  around  here,  and  I  want  her  to 
leave.  She's  even  threatened  to  see  Eades,  but  she 
wouldn't  do  that;  she's  too  square.  But  she  has  a 
stand-in  with  McFee,  and  while  he's  all  right  in  his 
way,  still  he's  a  copper,  and  you  can't  be  sure  of  a 
copper.  She  can't  help  me  any  here,  and  she  might 
queer  me ;  the  flatties  might  pry  something  out  of  her 
that  could  hurt  me — they'll  do  anything.    If  you'll  see 


;jHE  TURN  DR  iTHE  BALANCE      561 

Danny  Gibb's  and  have  him  ship  her,  I'll  be  much 
obliged.  And  say,  Mr.  Marriott,  when  you're  seeing 
him,  tell  him  to  get  that  thing  fixed  up  and  send  me 
my  bit.  He'll  understand.  I  don't  mind  telling  you, 
at  that.  There's  a  man  here,  a  swell  guy,  a  banker, 
who  does  business  with  Dan.  He's  handled  some  of 
our  paper — and  that  sort  of  thing,  you  know,  and  I've 
got  a  draw  coming  there.  It  ain't  much,  about  twenty- 
five  case,  I  guess,  but  it'd  come  in  handy.  Tell  Dan  to 
give  the  woman  a  piece  of  it  and  send  the  rest  to  me 
here.  I  can  use  it  just  now  buying  tobacco  and  milk 
and  some  little  things  I  need.  Dan'll  understand  all 
about  it." 

'Who  is  this  swell  guy  you  speak  of — this  banker  ?" 
Curly  looked  at  Marriott  with  the  suspicion  that  was 
necessarily  habitual  with  him,  but  his  glance  softened 
and  he  said : 

"I  don't  know  him  myself.  I  never  saw  him — ^his 
name's  Hunt,  no,  Hunter,  or  some  such  thing.  Know 
him?" 

Marriott's  heart  leaped ;  he  struggled  to  control  him- 
self. 

"Course,  you  understand,  Mr.  Marriott,"  said  Curly, 
fearing  he  had  been  indiscreet,  "this  is  all  between 
ourselves." 

"Oh,  of  course,  you  can  depend  on  me." 
He  was  anxious  now  to  get  away ;  he  could  scarcely 
observe  the  few  decencies  of  decorum  that  the  place 
demanded.  And  when  he  was  once  out  of  the  prison, 
he  called  a  cab  and  drove  with  all  speed  to  Gibbs's 
place.  On  the  way  his  mind  worked  rapidly,  splendid- 
ly, under  its  concentration.    When  he  reached  the  well- 


562   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

known  quiet  little  saloon  in  Kentucky  Street,  Gibbs 
took  him  into  the  back  room,  and  there,  where  Gibbs 
had  been  told  of  the  desperate  plights  of  so  many  men, 
Marriott  told  him  of  the  plight  of  Dick  Ward.  When 
he  had  done,  he  leaned  across  the  table  and  said : 

"And  you'll  help  me,  Dan  ?" 

Gibbs  made  no  reply,  but  instead  smoked  and  blinked 
at  Marriott  curiously.  Just  as  Marriott's  hopes  were 
falling,  Gibbs  broke  the  silence : 

"It's  the  girl  you're  interested  in,"  he  said  gruffly, 
"not  the  kid."  He  looked  at  Marriott  shrewdly,  and 
when  Marriott  saw  that  he  looked  not  at  all  unkindly 
or  in  any  sense  with  that  cynical  contempt  of  the  sen- 
timental that  might  have  been  expected  of  such  a  man, 
Marriott  smiled. 

"Well,  yes,  you're  right.    I  am  interested  in  her." 

Gibbs  threw  him  one  look  and  then  tilted  back, 
gazed  upward  to  the  ceiling,  puffed  meditatively  at  his 
cigar,  and  presently  said,  as  if  throwing  out  a  mere 
tentative  suggestion: 

"I  wonder  if  it  wouldn't  do  that  old  geezer  good  to 
take  a  sea- voyage?" 

Marriott's  heart  came  into  his  throat  with  a  little 
impulse  of  fear.  He  felt  uneasy — this  was  dangerous 
ground  for  a  lawyer  who  respected  the  ethics  of  his 
profession,  and  here  he  was,  plotting  with  this  go-be- 
tween of  criminals.  Criminals — and  yet  who  were  the 
criminals  he  went  between  ?  These  relations,  after  all, 
seemed  to  have  a  high  as  well  as  a  low  range — was 
there  any  so-called  class  of  society  whom  Gibbs  could 
not,  at  times,  serve  ? 

"Let's  see,"  Gibbs  was  saying,  "where  is  this  now? 


THE  TURN   OF  THE   BALANCE      563 

Canada  used  to  do,  but  that's  been  put  on  the  bum. 
Mexico  ain't  so  bad,  they  say,  and  some  of  them  South 
American  countries  does  pretty  well,  though  they  com- 
plain of  the  eatin',  and  there's  nothing  doing  anyway. 
A  couple  of  friends  of  mine  down  in  New  York  went 
to  a  place  somewhere  called — let's  see — called  Algiers, 
ain't  it?" 

Marriott  did  not  like  to  speak,  but  he  nodded. 

"Is  that  a  warm  country  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Where  is  it?" 

"It's  on  the  shores  of  the  Mediterranean." 

"Now  that  don't  tell  me  any  more  than  I  knew  be- 
fore," said  Gibbs,  "but  if  the  climate's  good  for  old 
guys  with  the  coin,  that's  about  all  we  want.  It'll 
make  the  front  all  right,  especially  at  this  time  o'  year." 

Marriott  nodded  again. 

"All  right,  that'll  do.  An  old  banker  goes  there  for 
his  health — just  as  if  it  was  Hot  Springs." 

Gibbs  thought  a  moment  longer. 

"Now,  of  course,  the  kid's  father'U  make  it  good, 
won't  he?    He'll  put  up?" 

"Yes,"  said  Marriott.  He  was  rather  faint  and  sick 
about  it  all — and  yet  it  was  working  beautifully,  and 
it  must  be  done.  Even  then  Ward  was  pacing  the 
floor  somewhere — and  Elizabeth,  she  was  waiting  and 
depending  on  him.    "Shall  I  bring  you  his  check  ?" 

"Hell,  no !"  exclaimed  Gibbs.  "We'll  want  the  cash. 
I'll  get  It  of  him.    The  fewer  hands,  the  better." 

Marriott  was  wild  to  get  away;  he  could  scarcely 
wait,  but  he  remembered  suddenly  Curly's  commis- 
sions, and  he  must  attend  to  them,  of  course.  He  felt 
a  great  gratitude  just  now  to  Curly, 


564      THE   TURN   OF.  THE   BALANCE 

When  Marriott  told  Gibbs  of  Curly's  request,  Gibbs 
shook  his  head  decidedly  and  said: 

"No,  I  draw  the  Hne  at  refereeing  domestic  scraps. 
If  Curly  wants  to  go  frame  in  with  a  moll,  it's  his 
business;  I  can't  do  anything."  And  then  he  dryly 
added :  "Nobody  can,  with  Jane ;  she's  hell !" 


XXVIII 

One  morning,  a  week  later,  as  they  sat  at  breakfast^ 
Ward  handed  his  newspaper  across  to  Elizabeth,  indi* 
eating  an  item  in  the  social  column,  and  Elizabeth 
read  : 

"Mr.  Amos  Hunter,  accompanied  by  his  daughter,  Miss 
Agnes  Hunter,  sailed  from  New  York  yesterday  on  the  steamer 
King  Emanuel  for  Naples.  Mr.  Hunter  goes  abroad  for  his 
health,  and  will  spend  the  winter  in  Italy." 

Elizabeth  looked  up. 

"That  means— ?" 

"That  it's  settled,''  Ward  replied. 

She  grew  suddenly  weak,  in  the  sense  of  relief  that 
seemed  to  dissolve  her. 

"Unless,"  Ward  added,  and  Elizabeth  caught  her- 
self and  looked  at  her  father  fearfully,  "Hunter  should 
come  back." 

"But  will  he?" 

"Some  time,  doubtless." 

"Oh,  dear !    Then  the  suspense  isn't  over  at  all !" 

"Well,  it's  over  for  the  present,  anyway.  Eades  can 
do  nothing,  so  Marriott  says,  as  long  as  Hunter  is 
away,  and  even  if  he  were  to  return,  the  fact  that  Hun- 
ter accepted  the  money  and  credited  it  on  his  books — 
in  some  fashion — would  make  it  exceedingly  difficult 
to  prove  anything,  and  of  course,  under  any  circum- 
stances, Hunter  wouldn't  dare — now." 

565 


S66      THE  TUkN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

Elizabeth  sat  a  moment  idly  playing  with  a  fork, 
and  her  father  studied  the  varying  expressions  of  her 
face  as  the  shades  came  and  went  in  her  sensitive 
countenance.  Her  brow  clouded  in  some  little  per- 
plexity, then  cleared  again,  and  at  last  she  sighed. 

"I  feel  a  hundred  years  old,"  she  said.  "Hasn't  it 
been  horrible  ?" 

"I  feel  like  a  criminal  myself,"  said  Ward. 

"We  are  criminals — all  of  us,"  she  said,  dealing 
bluntly,  cruelly  with  herself.  "We  ought  all  of  us  to 
be  in  the  penitentiary,  if  anybody  ought." 

"Yes,"  he  acquiesced. 
'  "Only,"  she  said,  "nobody  ought.    IVe  learned  that, 
anyway." 

"What  would  you  do  with  them?"  he  asked,  in  the 
comfort  of  entering  the  realm  of  the  abstract. 

"With  us?" 

"Well — with  the  criminals." 

"Send  us  to  the  penitentiary,  I  suppose." 

"You  are  delightfully  illogical,  Betsy,"  he  said,  try- 
ing to  laugh. 

"That's  all  we  can  be,"  she  said.  "It's  the  only  log- 
ical way." 

Then  they  were  silent,  for  the  maid  entered. 

"Have  we  really  committed  a  crime?"  she  asked, 
when  the  door  swung  on  the  maid,  who  came  and  went 
so  unconsciously  in  the  midst  of  these  tragic  currents. 
"Don't  tell  me— if  we  have." 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Ward.  "I  presume  I'd  rather 
not  know.  I  know  I've  gone  through  enough  to  make 
me  miserable  the  rest  of  my  life.  I  know  that  we  have 
settled  nothing — that  we  have  escaped  nothing — ex- 
cept what  people  will  say." 


THE  TURN  OP  THE  BALANCE      567 

"Yes,  mama,  after  all,  was  the  only  one  wise  enough 
to  understand  and  appreciate  the  real  significance." 

"Well,  there's  nothing  more  we  can  do  now,"  he 
replied. 

"No,  we  must  go  on  living  some  way."  She  got  up, 
went  around  the  table  and  kissed  him  on  the  forehead. 
"We'll  just  lock  our  little  skeleton  in  the  family  closet, 
papa,  and  once  in  a  while  go  and  take  a  peep  at  him. 
There  may  be  some  good  in  that — ^he'U  keep  us  from 
growing  proud,  anyway." 

Ward  and  Marriott  had  decided  to  say  as  little  to 
Elizabeth  as  possible  of  their  transaction.  Ward  had 
gone  through  a  week  of  agony.  In  a  day  or  two  he 
had  raised  the  little  fortune,  and  kept  it  ready,  and  he 
had  been  surprised  and  a  bit  perturbed  when  Gibbs 
had  come  and  in  quite  a  matter-of-fact  way  asked  for 
the  amount  in  cash.  Ward  had  helplessly  turned  it 
over  to  him  with  many  doubts  and  suspicions ;  but  he 
knew  no  other  way.  Afterward,  when  Gibbs  returned 
and  gave  him  Hunter's  receipt,  he  had  felt  ashamed 
of  these  doubts  and  had  hoped  Gibbs  had  not  noticed 
them,  but  Gibbs  had  gone  away  without  a  word,  save 
a  gruff : 

"Well,  that's  fixed,  Mr.  Ward." 

And  yet  Elizabeth  had  wondered  about  it  all.  Her 
conscience  troubled  her  acutely,  so  acutely  that  when 
Marriott  came  over  that  evening  for  the  praise  he 
could  not  forego,  and  perhaps  for  a  little  spiritual  cor- 
roboration and  comfort,  she  said : 

"Gordon,  you  have  done  wonders.  I  can't  thank 
you." 

"Don't  try,"  he  said.    "It's  nothing." 

She   looked   troubled.     Her   brows   darkened,   and 


568   THE  TURN  OR  THE  BALANCE 

tfien,  unable   to  resist  tHe  impulse  any  longer,   she 
asked : 

**But,  Gordon,  was  it  right?" 

"What?"  he  asked,  quite  needlessly,  as  they  both 
knew. 

"What  you— what  we— did  ?" 

"Yes,  it  was  right." 

"Was  it  legal?" 

"N-no." 

"Ah!"  She  was  silent  a  moment.  "What  is  it 
called?" 

"What?" 

"You  know  very  well — our  crime.  I  must  know  the 
worst.    I  must  know  just  how  bad  I  am." 

"You  wish  to  have  it  labeled,  classified,  as  Doctor 
Tilson  would  have  it  ?" 
,     "Yes,  tell  me." 

"I  believe,"  said  Marriott  looking  away  and  biting 
his  upper  lip,  "that  it's  called  compounding  a  felony,  or 
something  of  that  sort." 

He  was  silent  and  she  was  silent.  Then  he  spoke 
again. 

"They  disbarred  poor  old  Billy  Gale  for  less  than 
that." 

She  looked  at  him,  her  gray  eyes  winking  rapidly 
as  they  did  when  she  was  interested  and  her  mind 
concentrated  on  some  absorbing  problem.  Then  she 
impulsively  clasped  her  white  hands  in  her  lap,  and, 
leaning  over,  she  asked  out  of  the  psychological  inter- 
est the  situation  must  soon  or  late  have  for  her : 

"Tell  me,  Gordon,  just  how  you  felt  when  you 
were — " 

"Committing  it?" 


THE  TURN  OK  THE  BALANCE      569 

She  nodded  her  head  rapidly,  almost  impatiently. 

"Well,"  he  said  with  a  far-away  expression,  "I  ex- 
perienced, especially  when  I  was  in  Danny  Gibbs's  sa- 
loon, that  pleasant  feeling  of  going  to  hell." 

"You  just  won't  reassure  me,"  she  said,  relaxing  in- 
to a  hopeless  attitude. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  will,"  he  replied.  "Don't  you  remember 
what  Emerson  says  ?"  He  looked  up  at  the  portrait  of 
the  beautiful,  spiritual  face  above  the  mantel. 

She  looked  up  in  her  vivid  literary  interest. 

"No ;  tell  me.    He  said  everything." 

"Yes,  everything  there  is  to  say.  He  said,  'Good 
men  must  not  obey  the  laws  too  well.*  " 


XXIX 

When  Eades  read  the  announcement  of  Hunter*s 
departure  for  Italy  he  was  first  surprised,  then  indig- 
nant, then  reHeved.  Hunter  had  reported  Dick^s  crime 
in  anger,  the  state  of  mind  in  which  most  criminal 
prosecutions  are  begun.  The  old  man  had  trembled 
until  Eades  feared  for  him ;  as  he  sat  there  with  pallid 
lips  relating  the  circumstances,  he  was  not  at  all  the 
contained,  mild  and  shrewd  old  financier  Eades  so  long 
had  known. 

"We  must  be  protected,  Mr.  Eades," — ^he  could  hear 
the  shrill  cry  for  days — "we  must  be  protected  from 
these  thieves !  They  are  the  worst  of  all,  sir ;  the  worst 
of  all !  I  want  this  young  scoundrel  arrested  and  sent 
to  the  penitentiary  right  away,  sir,  right  away  !'* 

Eades  had  seen  that  the  old  man  was  in  fear,  and 
that  in  his  fear  he  had  turned  to  him  as  toward  that 
ancient  corner-stone  of  society,  the  criminal  statute. 
And  now  he  had  fled ! 

Eades  knew,  of  course,  that  some  one  had  tampered 
with  him;  and,  of  course,  the  defalcation  had  been 
made  good,  and  now  Hunter  would  be  an  impossible 
witness.  Even  Eades  could  imagine  Hunter  on  the 
stand,  not  as  he  had  been  in  his  office  that  day,  angry, 
frightened,  keenly  conscious  of  his  wrong  and  recalling 
minutely  all  the  details ;  but  senile,  a  little  deaf,  leaning 
forward  with  a  hand  behind  his  ear,  a  grin  on  his 
withered  face,  remembering  nothing,  not  cognizant  of 
the   details   of   his   bookkeeping — sitting  there,   with 

570 


THE   TURN   OF   THE   BALANCE      571 

his  money  safe  in  his  pocket,  while  the  case  collapsecl, 
Dick  was  acquitted  in  triumph — and  he,  John  Eades, 
made  ridiculous. 

But  what  was  he  to  do  ?  After  all,  in  the  eye  of  the 
law,  Hunter  was  not  a  witness;  and,  besides,  it  was 
possible  that,  technically,  the  felony  might  not  have 
been  compounded.  At  any  rate,  if  it  had  been  he  could 
not  prove  it,  and  as  for  proceeding  now  against  Ward, 
that  was  too  much  to  expect,  too  much  even  for  him 
to  exact  of  himself.  When  a  definite  case  was  laid 
before  him  with  the  evidence  to  support  it,  his  duty 
was  plain,  but  he  was  not  required  to  go  tilting  after 
wind-mills,  to  investigate  mere  suspicions.  It  was  a 
relief  to  resign  himself  to  this  conclusion.  Now  he 
could  only  wait  for  Hunter's  return,  and  have  him 
brought  in  when  he  came,  but  probably,  in  the  end,  it 
would  come  to  nothing.  Yes,  it  was  a  relief,  and  he 
could  think  hopefully  once  more  of  Elizabeth. 

The  fourteenth  of  May — ^the  date  for  the  execution 
of  the  sentence  of  death  against  Archie — was  almost 
on  him  before  Marriott  filed  his  petition  in  error  in  the 
Appellate  Court  and  a  motion  for  suspension  of  sen- 
tence. He  had  calculated  nicely.  As  the  court  could 
not  hear  and  determine  the  case  before  the  day  of  ex- 
ecution, the  motion  was  granted,  and  the  execution 
postponed.  Marriott's  relief  was  exquisite ;  he  hastened 
to  send  a  telegram  to  Archie,  and  was  happy,  so  happy 
that  he  could  laugh  at  the  editorial  which  Edwards 
printed,  the  next  morning,  calling  for  reforms  in  the 
criminal  code  which  would  prevent  "such  travesties  as 
were  evidently  to  be  expected  in  the  Koerner  case." 

Marriott  could  laugh,  because  he  knew  how  hypo- 


572      THE  TURN  OF;  THE  BALANCE 

critical  Edwards  was,  but  Edwards's  editorials  had  in- 
fluence in  other  quarters,  and  Marriott  more  and  more 
regretted  his  simple  little  act  of  kindness — or  of  weak- 
ness— in  loaning  Edwards  the  ten  dollars.  If  the 
newspapers  would  desist,  he  felt  sure  that  in  time, 
when  public  sentiment  had  undergone  its  inevitable  re- 
action, he  might  secure  a  commutation  of  Archie's  sen- 
tence; but  if  Edwards,  in  order  to  vent  his  spleen, 
continued  to  keep  alive  the  spirit  of  the  mob,  then 
there  was  little  hope. 

"If  he  could  only  be  sent  to  prison  for  life!"  said 
Elizabeth,  as  they  discussed  this  aspect  of  the  case. 
"No," — she  hastened  to  correct  herself — ^*'for  twenty 
years ;  that  would  do.'* 

"It  would  be  the  same  thing,"  said  Marriott. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  Elizabeth  leaned  forward 
with  a  puzzled  expression  in  her  gray  eyes. 

"All  sentences  to  the  penitentiary  are  sentences  for 
life.  We  pretend  they're  not,  but  if  a  man  lives  to  get 
out — do  we  treat  him  as  if  he  had  paid  the  debt  ?  No, 
he's  a  convict  still.    Look  at  Archie,  for  instance." 

"Look  at  Harry  Graves !  Oh,  Gordon," — Elizabeth 
suddenly  sat  up  and  made  an  impatient  gesture — "I 
can't  forget  him !  And  Gusta !  And  those  men  I  saw 
as  they  were  taken  from  the  jail !" 

"You  mustn't  worry  about  it ;  you  can't  help  it." 

"Oh,  that's  what  they  all  tell  me!  'Don't  worry 
about  it — you  can't  help  it!'  No!  But  you  worried 
about  Archie — and  about" — she  closed  her  eyes,  and 
he  watched  their  white  Hds  droop  in  pain — "and  about 
Dick." 

"I  knew  them." 

"Yes,"  she  said,  nodding  her  head,  "you  knew  them 


THE  TURN  OE  THE  BACANCE      573 

— ^that  explains  it  all.  We  don't  know  the  others,  and 
so  we  don't  care.  Some  one  knows  them,  of  course,  or 
did,  once,  in  the  beginning.  It  makes  me  so  unhappy ! 
Don't,  please,  ever  any  more  tell  me  not  to  worry,  or 
that  I  can't  help  it.  Try  to  think  out  some  way  in 
which  I  can  help  it,  won't  you  ?" 

Meanwhile,  Edwards's  editorials  were  doing  their 
work.  They  had  an  effect  on  Eades,  of  course,  because 
the  Courier  was  the  organ  of  his  party,  to  which  he 
had  to  look  for  renomination.  And  they  produced  their 
effect  on  the  judges  of  the  Appellate  Court,  who  also 
belonged  to  that  party,  but,  not  knowing  Edwards, 
thought  his  anonymous  utterances  the  voice  of  the  peo- 
ple, which,  at  times,  in  the  ears  of  politicians  sounds 
like  the  voice  of  God.  The  court  heard  the  case  early 
in  June ;  in  two  weeks  it  was  decided.  When  Marriott 
entered  the  court-room  on  the  morning  the  decision 
was  tol)e  rendered,  his  heart  sank.  On  the  left  of  the 
bench  were  piled  some  law-books,  and  behind  them, 
peeping  surreptitiously,  he  recognized  the  transcript 
in  the  Koerner  case.  It  was  much  like  other  tran- 
scripts, to  be  sure,  but  to  Marriott  it  was  as  familiar 
as  the  features  of  a  friend  with  whom  one  has  gone 
through  trouble.  The  transcript  lay  on  the  desk  be- 
fore Judge  Gardner's  empty  chair  and  therefore  he 
knew  that  the  decision  was  to  be  delivered  by  Gardner, 
and  he  feared  that  it  was  adverse,  for  Gardner  had 
been  severe  with  him  and  had  asked  him  questions  dur- 
ing the  argument. 

The  bailiff  had  stood  up,  rapped  on  his  desk,  and 
Marriott,  Eades  and  the  other  lawyers  in  the  court- 
room rose  to  simulate  a  respect  for  the  court  enter- 
tained only  by  those  who  felt  that  they  were  likely  to 


574   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

win  their  cases.  The  three  judges  paced  solemnly  in, 
and  when  they  were  seated  and  the  presiding  judge 
had  made  a  few  announcements,  Gardner  leaned  for- 
ward, pulled  the  transcript  toward  him,  balanced  his 
gold  glasses  on  his  nose,  cleared  his  throat,  and  in  a 
deep  bass  voice  and  in  a  manner  somewhat  strained, 
began  to  announce  the  decision.  Before  he  had  uttered 
half  a  dozen  sentences,  Marriott  knew  that  he  had  lost 
again.  The  decision  of  the  lower  court  was  affirmed 
in  what  was  inevitably  called  by  the  newspapers  an  able 
opinion,  and  the  day  of  Archie's  death  was  once  more 
fixed — this  time  for  the  twenty-first  of  October. 

A  few  weeks  later,  Marriott  saw  Archie  at  the  peni- 
tentiary. He  had  gone  to  the  state  capital  to  argue  to 
the  Supreme  Court  old  man  Koerner's  case  against  the 
railroad  company.  Several  weeks  before  he  had  tried 
the  case  in  the  Appellate  Court,  and  had  won,  the  court 
affirming  the  judgment.  This  case  seemed  now  to  be 
the  only  hope  of  the  family,  and  Marriott  was  anxious 
to  have  it  heard  by  the  Supreme  Court  before  the 
learned  justices  knew  of  Archie's  case,  lest  the  relation 
of  the  old  man  and  the  boy  prejudice  them.  He  felt 
somehow  that  if  he  failed  in  Archie's  case,  a  victory  in 
the  father's  case  would  go  far  to  dress  the  balance  of 
the  scales  of  justice  and  preserve  the  equilibrium  of 
tjiings.  It  was  noon  when  Marriott  was  at  the  peni- 
tentiary, and  he  was  glad  that  the  men  who  were  wait- 
ing to  be  killed  were  then  taking  their  exercise,  for  he 
was  spared  the  depression  of  the  death-chamber.  He 
met  Archie  under  the  blackened  locust  tree  in  the  quad- 
rangle. Archie  was  hopeful  that  day. 

"I  feel  lucky,"  said  Archie.  "I'll  not  have  to  pun- 
ish,—-think  so,  Mr,  Marriotti" 


THE  TURN   OF  THE   BALANCE      575 

"We've  got  lots  of  time,"  Marriott  replied,  not  know- 
ing what  else  to  say,  "the  Supreme  Court  doesn't  sit 
till  fall." 

Pritchard,  the  poisoner,  laid  his  slender  white  hand 
on  Archie's  shoulder. 

"Good  boy  you've  got  here,  Mr.  Marriott,"  he  said 
jokingly,  "but  a  trifle  wild." 

Marriott  laughed,  and  wondered  how  he  could  laugh. 

Just  then  a  whistle  blew,  and  the  convicts  in  close- 
formed  ranks  filed  by  on  their  way  to  dinner.  As  they 
went  by,  one  of  them  glanced  at  him  with  a  smile  of 
recognition ;  a  smile  which,  as  Marriott  saw,  the  man 
at  once  repressed,  as  the  convict  is  compelled  to  repress 
all  signs  of  human  feeling.  Marriott  stared,  then  sud- 
denly remembered ;  it  was  a  man  named  Brill,  whom  he 
had  known  years  before.  And  he,  like  the  rest  of  the 
world,  had  forgotten  Brill !  He  had  not  even  cast  him 
a  glance  of  sympathy!  He  felt  like  running  after  the 
company — ^but  it  was  too  late;  Brill  must  go  without 
the  one  little  kindness  that  might  have  made  one  day, 
at  least,  happier,  or  if  not  that,  shorter  for  him. 

The  last  gray-garbed  company  marched  by,  the 
guard  with  his  club  at  his  shoulder.  The  rear  of  this 
company  was  brought  up  by  a  convict,  plainly  of  the 
fourth  grade,  for  he  was  in  stripes  and  his  head  was 
shaved.  He  walked  painfully,  with  the  aid  of  a  crook- 
ed cane,  lifting  one  foot  after  the  other,  flinging  it  be- 
fore him  and  then  slapping  it  down  imcertainly  with  a 
disagreeable  sound  to  the  pavement. 

"What's  the  matter  with  that  man  ?"  asked  Marriott. 

"They  say  he  has  locomotor  ataxia,"  said  Beck,  the 
death-watch,  "but  he's  only  shamming.  He's  no  good." 


XXX 

Archie  had  lived  in  the  death-chamber  at  the  peni- 
tentiary for  nine  months.  Three  times  had  the  day  of 
his  death  been  fixed;  the  first  time,  by  Glassford  for 
the  fourteenth  of  May,  the  second  time  by  the  Appel- 
late Court  for  the  twenty-first  of  October.  Then,  the 
third  time  the  seven  justices  of  the  Supreme  Court,  sit- 
ting in  their  black  and  solemn  gowns,  sustained  the 
lower  court,  and  set  the  day  anew,  this  time  for  the 
twenty-third  of  November.  Then  came  the  race  to  the 
Pardon  Board;  where  Marriott  and  Eades  again 
fought  over  Archie's  life.  The  Pardon  Board  refused 
to  recommend  clemency.  But  one  hope  remained — 
the  governor.  It  was  now  the  twenty-second  of  No- 
vember— one  day  more.  Archie  waited  that  long  after- 
noon in  the  death-chamber,  while  Marriott  at  the  state 
house  pleaded  with  the  governor  for  a  commutation  of 
his  sentence  to  imprisonment  for  life. 

Already  the  prison  authorities  had  begun  the  ar- 
rangements. That  afternoon  Archie  had  heard  them 
testing  the  electric  chair ;  he  had  listened  to  the  thrum- 
ming of  its  current;  twice,  thrice,  half  a  dozen  times, 
they  had  turned  it  on.  Then  Jimmy  Ball  had  come  in, 
peered  an  instant,  without  a  word,  then  shambled 
away,  his  stick  hooked  over  his  arm.  It  was  very  still 
in  the  death-chamber  that  afternoon.  The  eight  other 
men  confined  there,  like  Archie,  spent  their  days  in 
reviving  hope  within  their  breasts ;  like  him,  they  had 

576 


THE  TURN   OF  THE  BALANCE      577 

experienced  the  sensation  of  having  the  day  of  their 
death  fixed,  and  then  lived  to  see  it  postponed,  changed, 
postponed  and  fixed  again.  They  had  known  the  long 
suspense,  the  alternate  rise  and  fall  of  hope,  as  in  the 
courts  the  state  had  wrangled  with  their  lawyers  for 
their  lives.  Not  once  had  Burns,  the  negro,  twanged 
his  guitar.  Lowrie,  who  was  writing  a  history  of  his 
wasted  life,  had  allowed  his  labor  to  languish,  and  sat 
now  moodily  gazing  at  the  pieces  of  paper  he  had  cov- 
ered with  his  illiterate  writing.  Old  man  Stewart,  who 
had  strangled  his  young  wife  in  a  jealous  rage,  lay  on 
his  iron  cot,  his  long  white  beard  spread  on  his  breast, 
strangely  suggestive  of  the  appearance  he  soon  would 
present  in  death.  Kulaski,  the  Slav,  who  had  slain  a 
saloon-keeper  for  selling  beer  to  his  son,  and  never  re- 
pented, was  moody  and  morose;  Belden  and  Waller 
had  consented  to  an  intermission  of  their  quarrelsome 
argument  about  religion.  The  intermission  had  the 
effect  of  a  deference  to  Archie ;  the  argument  was  not 
to  be  resumed  until  after  Archie's  death,  when  he 
might,  indeed,  be  supposed  to  have  solved  the  problem 
they  constantly  debated,  and  to  have  no  further  interest 
in  it.  Pritchard,  the  poisoner,  a  quiet  fellow,  and  Mul- 
ler  had  ceased  their  interminable  game  of  cribbage,  the 
cards  lay  scattered  on  the  table,  the  little  pins  stuck  in 
the  board  where  they  had  left  them,  to  resume  their 
count  another  time.  The  gloom  of  Archie's  nearing 
fate  hung  over  these  men,  yet  none  of  them  was  think- 
ing of  Archie;  each  was  thinking  of  an  evening  which 
.would  be  to  him  as  this  evening  was  to  Archie,  unless 
I — there  was  always  that  word  "unless" ;  it  made  their 
hearts  leap  painfully. 

Just  outside  the  iron  grating  which  separated  from 


578   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

the  antechamber  the  great  apartment  where  they  ex- 
isted in  the  hope  of  living  again,  Beck,  the  guard,  sat 
in  his  well-worn  splint-bottomed  chair.  He  had  tilted 
it  against  the  wall,  and,  with  his  head  thrown  back, 
seemed  to  slumber.  His  coarse  mouth  was  open,  his 
purple  nose,  thrown  thus  into  prominence,  was  gro- 
tesque, his  filthy  waistcoat  rose  and  stretched  and  fell 
as  his  flabby  paunch  inflated  with  his  breathing.  Be- 
side the  hot  stove,  just  where  the  last  shaft  of  the  sun, 
falling  through  the  barred  window,  could  fall  on  her, 
a  black  cat,  fat  and  sleek,  that  haunted  the  chamber 
with  her  uncanny  feline  presence,  stretched  herself, 
and  yawned,  curling  her  delicate  tongue. 

When  Archie  entered  the  death-chamber,  there  had 
been  eleven  men  in  it.  But  the  number  had  decreased. 
He  could  remember  distinctly  each  separate  exit.  One 
by  one  they  had  gone  out,  never  to  return.  There  was 
Mike  Thomas ;  he  would  remember  the  horror  of  that 
to  the  end  of  his  life,  as,  with  the  human  habit,  he  ex- 
pressed it  to  Marriott,  insensible  of  the  grim  irony  of 
the  phrase  in  that  place  of  deliberate  death,  where, 
after  all,  life  persisted  on  its  own  terms  and  with  its 
common  phrases  and  symbols.  The  newspapers  had 
called  it  a  harrowing  scene ;  the  inmates  of  the  death- 
chamber  had  whispered  about  it,  calling  it  a  bungle, 
and  the  affair  had  magnified  and  distorted  itself  to 
their  imaginations,  and  they  had  dwelt  on  it  with  a 
covert  morbidity.  The  newspapers  next  day  were  de- 
nied them,  but  they  knew  that  it  had  required  three 
shocks — they  could  count  them  by  the  thrumming  of 
the  currents,  each  time  the  prison  had  shaken  with  the 
howl  of  the  awakened  convicts  in  the  cell-house.  Bill 
Arnold,  the  negro  who  had  killed  a  real  estate  agent, 


THE  TURN   OF  THE   BALANCE      579 

had  been  the  most  concerned ;  his  day  was  but  a  week 
after  Thomas's.  The  strain  had  been  too  much  for 
Arnold;  he  had  collapsed,  raved  like  a  maniac,  then 
sobbed,  fallen  on  his  knees  and  yammered  a  prayer  to 
Jimmy  Ball,  as  if  the  deputy  warden  were  a  god.  They 
had  dragged  him  out,  still  on  his  knees,  moaning  "God 
be  merciful ;  God  be  merciful." 

They  had  missed  Arnold.  He  was  a  jolly  negro, 
who  could  sing  and  tell  stories,  and  do  buck-and-wing 
dancing,  and,  when  Ball  was  away,  and  the  guard's 
back  turned,  give  perfect  imitations  of  them  both. 
They  missed  him  out  of  their  Hfe  in  that  chamber,  or 
rather  out  of  their  death.  It  seemed  strange  to  think 
that  one  minute  he  was  among  them,  full  of  warm 
pulsing  life  and  strength — and  that  the  next,  he  should 
be  dead.  They  missed  him,  as  men  miss  a  fellow  with 
whom  they  have  eaten  and  slept  for  months. 

These  men  in  the  state  shambles  were  there,  the  law 
had  said,  for  murder.  But  this  was  only  in  a  sense 
true.  One  was  there,  for  instance,  because  his  lawyer 
had  made  a  mistake ;  he  had  not  kept  accurate  account 
of  his  peremptory  challenges;  he  thought  he  had  ex- 
hausted but  fifteen,  whereas  he  had  exhausted  sixteen ; 
that  is,  all  of  them,  and  so  had  been  unable  to  remove 
from  the  jury  a  man  whom  he  had  irritated  and  offend- 
ed by  his  persistent  questioning;  he  had  been  quite 
sarcastic,  intending  to  challenge  the  man  peremptorily 
in  a  few  moments.  Another  man  was  there  because 
the  judge  before  whom  he  was  tried,  having  quarreled 
with  his  wife  one  morning,  was  out  of  humor  all  that 
day,  and  had  ridiculed  his  lawyer,  not  in  words,  but 
by  sneers  and  curlings  of  his  lip,  which  could  not  be 
preserved  in  the  record.    Another — Pritchard,  to  bq 


58o   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

exact — was  tHere,  first,  because  he  had  been  a  chemist ; 
secondly,  because  he,  Hke  the  judge,  had  had  a  quarrel 
with  his  wife;  thirdly,  because  his  wife  had  died  sud- 
denly, and  traces  of  cyanide  of  potassium  had  been 
found  in  her  stomach — at  least  three  of  the  four  doc- 
tors who  had  conducted  the  post-mortem  examination 
had  said  the  traces  were  of  cyanide  of  potassium — and 
fourthly,  because  a  small  vial  was  discovered  in  the 
room  in  which  were  also  traces  of  cyanide  of  potas- 
sium; at  least,  three  chemists  declared  the  traces  were 
those  of  cyanide  of  potassium.  And  all  of  them  were 
there  for  some  such  reason  as  this,  and  all  of  them, 
with  the  possible  exception  of  Pritchard,  had  taken 
human  life.  And  yet  each  one  had  felt,  and  still  felt, 
that  the  circumstances  under  which  he  had  killed  were 
such  as  to  warrant  killing;  such,  indeed,  as  to  make  it 
at  the  moment  seem  imperative  and  necessary,  just  as 
the  State  felt  that  in  killing  these  men,  circumstances 
had  arisen  which  made  it  justifiable,  imperative  and 
necessary  to  kill. 

Though  Archie  waited  in  suspense,  the  afternoon 
was  short,  short  even  beyond  the  shortness  of  Novem- 
ber, and  at  five  o'clock  Marriott  came.  He  lingered 
just  outside  the  entrance  to  the  chamber  in  the  little 
room  that  was  fitted  up  somehow  like  a  chapel,  the 
room  in  which  the  death  chair  was  placed.  The  guard 
brought  Archie  out,  and  he  leaned  carelessly  against 
the  rail  that  surrounded  the  chair,  mysterious  and  sin- 
ister under  its  draping  of  black  oil-cloth.  The  rail 
railed  off  the  little  platform  on  which  the  chair  was 
placed  just  as  a  chancel-rail  rails  off  an  altar,  pos- 


THE  TURN  OE  THE  BALANCE      581 

sibly  because  so  many  people  regarded  the  chair  in  the 
same  sacred  Hght  that  they  regarded  an  altar,  and 
spoke  of  it  as  if  its  rite  were  quite  as  saving  and  sacer- 
dotal. But  Archie  leaned  against  the  rail  calmly,  neg- 
ligently, and  it  made  Marriott's  flesh  creep  to  see  him 
thus  unmoved  and  practical.  He  did  not  speak,  but  he 
looked  his  last  question  out  of  his  blue  eyes. 

"The  governor  hasn't  decided  yet,"  Marriott  said. 
"I've  spent  the  afternoon  with  him.  I've  labored  with 
him — God!"  he  suddenly  paused  and  sighed  in  utter 
weariness  at  the  recollection  of  the  long  hours  in  which 
he  had  clung  to  the  governor — "I'm  to  see  him  again 
at  eight  o'clock  at  the  executive  mansion.  He's  to  give 
me  a  final  answer  then." 

"At  eight  o'clock?"  The  words  slipped  from  Ar- 
chie's lips  as  softly  as  his  breath. 

"This  evening,"  said  Marriott,  dreading  now  the 
thought  of  fixity  of  time.  He  looked  at  Archie;  and 
it  was  almost  more  than  he  could  endure.  Archie's 
eyes  were  fastened  on  him;  his  gaze^ seemed  to  cling 
to  him  in  final  desperation. 

"Oh,  in  the  name  of  God,"  Archie  suddenly  whis- 
pered, leaning  toward  him,  his  face  directly  in  his,  "do 
something,  Mr.  Marriott!  something!  something!  I 
can't,  I  can't  die  to-night!  If  it's  only  a  little  more 
time — just  another  day — but  not  to-night!  Not  to- 
night!   Do  something,  Mr.  Marriott;  something!" 

Marriott  seized  Archie's  hand.  It  was  cold  and  wet. 
He  wrung  it  as  hard  as  he  could.  There  were  no 
words  for  such  a  moment  as  this.    Words  but  mocked. 

He  saw  Archie's  chest  heave,  and  the  cords  tighten 
in  his  swelling  neck.    Marriott  could  only  look  at  him 


582   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

— this  boy,  for  whom  he  had  come  to  have  an  affec- 
tion— so  young,  so  strong,  with  the  great  gloom  of 
death  prematurely,  unnecessarily,  in  his  face ! 

But  the  face  cleared  suddenly, — ^Archie  still  could 
think,  and  he  remembered — he  remembered  Curly,  and 
Mason  and  old  Dillon,  and  Gibbs,  he  recalled  the  only 
ideals  he  knew — like  all  of  us,  he  could  live  up  only  to 
such  ideals  as  he  had — he  remembered  that  he  must  be 
game.  He  straightened,  Marriott  saw  the  fine  and 
supple  play  of  the  muscles  of  his  chest,  its  white  skin 
revealed  through  his  open  shirt. 

"So  long,  Mr.  Marriott,"  said  Archie,  and  then 
turned  and  went  back  into  the  death-chamber. 

Outside,  in  the  twilight  that  was  filling  the  quad- 
rangle, Marriott  passed  along,  the  gloom  of  the  place 
he  had  left  filling  his  soul.  The  trusty  who  had  con- 
ducted him  to  the  death-chamber  paced  in  silence  by 
his  side.  He  passed  the  great  tree,  gaunt  and  bare  and 
black  now,  the  tree  under  which  he  had  seen  that  sum- 
mer day  these. doomed  men  take  their  exercise,  with 
the  Sunday-school  scholars  standing  by  and  gazing  on 
with  curious  covert  glances  and  perverted  thoughts. 
He  wished  that  time  had  paused  on  that  day — he  had 
had  hope  then;  this  thing  as  to  Archie,  it  then  had 
seemed,  simply  could  not  be ;  it  might,  he  had  felt,  very 
well  be  as  to  those  other  doomed  men ;  indeed,  it 
seemed  certain  and  irrevocable ;  but  as  to  Archie,  no,  it 
could  not  be.  And  yet,  here  it  was,  the  night  before 
the  day — and  but  one  more  hope  between  them  and  the 
end.  He  hastened  on,  anxious  to  get  out  of  the  place. 
Any  moment  the  whistle  might  blow  and  he  would 
have  to  wait  until  the  men  had  come  from  their  work ; 
the  gate;5  could  not  be  unlocked  at  that  time,  or  until 


THE   TURN   OF   THE   BALANCE       583 

the  men  were  locked  again  in  their  cells.  They  were 
passing  the  chapel,  and  suddenly  he  heard  music — 
the  playing  of  a  piano.  He  stopped  and  listened.  He 
heard  the  deep  bass  notes  of  Grieg's  Ode  to  the  Spring, 
played  now  with  a  pathos  he  had  never  known  before. 
,,-n  "What's  that?"  he  asked  the  trusty. 

"That  playing  ?  That's  young  Ernsthauser.  He's  a 
swell  piano  player." 

"May  we  look  in  ?" 

"Sure." 

They  entered,  and  stood  just  inside  the  door.  A 
young  German,  in  the  gray  convict  garb,  was  seated  at 
a  piano,  his  delicate  hands  straying  over  the  keys. 
One  gas-jet  burned  in  the  wall  above  the  piano,  shed- 
ding its  faint  circle  of  light  around  the  pianist,  glisten- 
ing on  the  dark  panels  of  the  instrument,  lighting  the 
pale  face  of  the  boy — he  was  but  a  boy — and  then  los- 
ing itself  in  the  great  darkness  that  hung  thick  and 
soft  and  heavy  in  the  vast  auditorium.  Marriott  looked 
and  listened  in  silence;  tears  came  to  his  eyes,  a  vast 
pity  welled  within  him,  and  he  knew  that  never  again 
would  he  hear  the  Ode  without  experiencing  the  pity 
and  the  pain  of  this  day.  He  wished,  indeed,  that  he 
had  not  heard  it.  The  musician  played  on,  rapt  and 
alone,  unconscious  of  their  presence. 

"Tell  me  about  that  fellow,"  said  Marriott,  as  they 
stole  away. 

"Oh,  he  was  a  musician  outside.  The  warden  lets 
him  play.  The  warden  likes  music.  I've  seen  him  cry 
when  Ernsthauser  plays.  He  plays  for  visitors,  and 
he  picks  up,  they  say,  a  good  bit  of  money  every  day. 
The  visitors,  except  the  Sunday-schools,  give  him 
tips." 


584      THE   TURN    Ot:   THE   BALANCE 

"How  long  is  he  in  for  ?" 

"Life." 

The  word  fell  like  a  blow  on  Marriott.  Life !  What 
parodoxes  were  in  this  place !  What  perverted  mean- 
ings— if  there  were  any  meanings  left  in  the  world. 
This  one  word  life,  in  one  part  of  the  prison  meant 
life  indeed;  now  it  meant  death.  Was  there  any  dif- 
ference in  the  words,  after  all — life  and  death  ?  Life  in 
death ;  death  in  life  ?  With  Archie  it  was  death  in  life, 
with  this  musician,  life  in  death — no,  it  was  the  other 
way.  But  was  it?  Marriott  could  not  decide.  The 
words  meant  nothing,  after  all. 

The  delay  in  the  chapel  kept  Marriott  in  the  prison 
for  half  an  hour.  He  would  not  watch  the  convicts 
march  again  to  their  cells ;  he  did  not  wish  to  hear  the 
clanging  of  the  gong  nor  the  thud  of  the  bolts  that 
locked  them  in  for  the  night. 

The  warden,  a  ruddy  and  rotund  man,  spoke  pleas- 
antly to  him  and  asked  him  into  his  office.  The  warden 
sat  in  a  big  swivel  chair  before  his  roll-top  desk,  and, 
while  Marriott  waited,  locked  in  now  like  the  rest,  they 
chatted.  It  was  incomprehensible  to  Marriott  that  this 
man  could  chat  casually  and  even  laugh,  when  he  knew 
that  he  must  stay  up  that  night  to  do  such  a  deed  as 
the  law  required  of  him.  The  consciousness,  indeed, 
must  have  lain  on  the  warden,  try  as  he  might  not  to 
show  it,  for,  presently,  the  warden  himself,  as  if  he 
could  not  help  it,  referred  to  the  event. 

"How's  Archie  taking  it  ?"  he  asked. 

Marriott  might  have  replied  conventionally,  or  po- 
litely, that  he  was  taking  it  well,  but  he  somehow  re- 
sented this  man's  casual  and  contained  manner.    And 


THE   TURN   OF  THE   BALANCE      585 

so,  looking  him  in  the  eyes,  and  meaning  to  punish 
him,  he  said : 

"He's  trying  to  appear  game,  but  he's  taking  it 
hard." 

"Hard,  eh?" 

"Yes,  hard."  Marriott  looked  at  him  sternly.  "Tell 
me,"  he  emboldened  himself  to  ask,  "how  can  you  do 
it?" 

The  warden's  face  became  suddenly  hard. 

"Do  it?  Bah!  I  could  switch  it  into  all  of  them 
fellows  in  there — like  that!"  He  snapped  his  fat  fin- 
gers in  the  air  with  a  startling,  suggestive  electric 
sound.  And  for  a  moment  afterward  his  upper  lip 
curled  with  a  cruelty  that  appalled  Marriott.  He 
looked  at  this  man,  this  executioner,  who  seemed  to  be 
encompassed  all  at  once  with  a  kind  of  subtle,  evil 
fascination.  Marriott  looked  at  his  face — then  in  some 
way  at  the  finger  and  thumb  which,  a  moment  before, 
had  snapped  their  indifference  in  the  air.  And  he 
started,  for  suddenly  he  recalled  that  Doctor  Tyler 
Tilson  had  declared,  in  the  profound  scientific  treatise 
he  had  written  for  the  Post,  that  Archie  had  the  spatu- 
late  finger-tips  and  the  stubbed  finger-nails  that  were 
among  the  stigmata  of  the  homicide,  and  Marriott 
saw  that  the  fingers  of  the  warden  were  spatulate,  their 
nails  were  broad  and  stubbed,  imbedded  in  the  flesh. 
And  this  man  liked  music — cried  when  the  life-man 
played ! 

"Won't  you  stop  and  have  dinner  with  me?"  the 
warden  asked.  "You  can  stay  for  the  execution,  too,  if 
you  wish." 

**No,   thank  you,"   said   Marriott   hurriedly.     The 


586   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

thought  of  sitting  down  to  dine  with  this  man  on  this 
evening  was  abhorrent,  loathsome  to  him.  He  might 
have  sat  down  and  eaten  with  Archie  and  his  compan- 
ions, or  with  those  convicts  whose  distant  shuffling 
feet  he  heard;  he  could  have  eaten  their  bread,  wet 
and  salt  with  their  tears,  but  he  could  not  eat  with  this 
.man.  And  yet,  sensitively,  he  could  not  let  this  man 
detect  his  loathing. 

"No,"  he  said,  "I  must  get  back  to  my  hotel — "  and 
the  thought  of  the  hotel,  with  its  light  and  its  life,  filled 
him  with  instant  longing.  "I  have  another  appoint- 
ment with  the  governor  this  evening." 

"Oh,  he  won't  do  anything,"  said  the  warden. 

The  words  depressed  Marriott,  and  he  hurried  away 
with  them  persistently  ringing  in  his  ears,  glad  at  least 
to  get  away  from  the  great  pile  that  hid  so  much  sor- 
row and  misery  and  shame  from  the  world,  and  now 
sat  black  against  the  gathering  night,  under  the  shadow 
of  a  mighty  wing. 

At  eight  o'clock  that  evening  Archie  was  sitting  on 
the  edge  of  his  cot,  smoking  one  of  the  Russian  cigar- 
ettes Marriott  had  brought  him  in  the  afternoon.  The 
pungent  and  unusual  odor  filled  the  death-chamber, 
and  the  other  waiting  men  (who  nevertheless  did  not 
have  to  die  that  night)  sniffed,  some  suspiciously, 
some  with  the  air  of  connoisseurs. 

"Ha !"  said  Pritchard,  turning  his  pale  face  slowly 
about,  "imported,  eh  ?" 

Then  Archie  passed  them  around,  though  somewhat 
reluctantly.  Marriott  had  brought  him  several  boxes 
of  these  cigarettes,  and  Archie  knew  they  were  the 
kind   Marriott  smoked   himself.     He  was  generous 


THE   TURN   OF.  THE   BALANCE       587 

enough ;  this  brotherhood  of  doomed  men  held  all 
things  in  common,  like  the  early  Christians,  sharing 
their  little  luxuries,  but  Archie  felt  that  it  was  useless 
to  waste  such  cigarettes  on  men  who  would  be  alive 
to-morrow;  especially  when  it  was  doubtful  if  there 
would  be  enough  for  himself. 

The  warden  had  sent  him  a  supper  which  was  borne 
in  with  the  effect  of  being  the  last  and  highest  excel- 
lence to  which  the  culinary  art  could  attain.  If  there 
was  anything,  Ball  reported  the  warden  as  having  said, 
that  was  then  in  market,  and  was  not  there  he'd  like  to 
know  what  it  was.  The  generosity  of  the  warden  had 
not  been  limited  to  Archie ;  the  others  were  treated  to 
a  like  repast;  there  was  turkey  for  all.  Archie  had 
not  eaten  much ;  he  had  made  an  effort  and  smiled  and 
thanked  the  warden  when  he  strolled  in  afterward  for 
his  meed  of  praise.  Archie  found  the  cigarettes  suffi- 
cient. He  sat  there  almost  without  moving,  smoking 
them  one  after  another,  end  to  end,  lighting  a  fresh 
one  from  the  cork-tipped  stub  of  the  one  he  was  about 
to  fling  away.  He  sat  and  smoked,  his  eyes  blinked 
in  his  white  face,  and  his  brows  contracted  as  he  tried 
to  think.  He  was  not,  of  course,  at  any  time,  capable 
of  sustained  or  logical  thought,  and  now  his  thoughts 
were  merely  a  muddle  of  impressions,  a  curiosity  as  to 
whether  he  would  win  or  lose,  as  if  he  were  gambling, 
and  all  this  in  the  midst  of  a  mighty  wonder,  vast,  im- 
measurable, profound,  that  was  expanding  slowly  in 
his  soul. 

How  many  times  had  he  waited  as  he  was  waiting 
now,  for  word  from  Marriott?  May  fourteenth,  Octo- 
ber twenty-first,  November  twenty-third.  What  day 
was  this  ?   Oh,  yes,  the  twenty-second.    What  time  was 


'S^      THE  TURN   OF.  THE  BALANCE 

it  now  ?  .  .  .  Kouka  ? — Kouka  was  dead ;  yes,  dead. 
That  was  good  .  .  .  And  he  himself  must  die  .  .  . 
Die?  What  was  that?  .  .  .  May  fourteenth,  Octo- 
ber twenty-first,  November  twenty-third.  He  had  al- 
ready died  three  times.  No,  he  had  died  many  more 
times  than  that ;  during  the  trial  he  had  died  again  and 
again,  by  day,  by  night.  Here  in  the  death-chamber 
he  had  died ;  here  on  this  very  cot.  Sometimes  during 
the  day,  when  they  were  all  strangely  merry,  when 
Bill  Arnold  was  doing  a  song  and  dance,  when  they 
had  all  forgotten,  suddenly,  in  an  instant,  it  would 
come  over  him,  and  he  would  die — die  there,  amidst 
them  all,  with  the  sun  streaming  in  the  window — die 
with  a  smile  and  a  joke,  perhaps  while  speaking  to  one 
of  them ;  they  would  not  know  he  was  dying.  And  in 
the  night  he  died  often,  nearly  every  night,  suddenly 
he  would  find  himself  awake,  staring  into  the  darkness ; 
then  he  would  remember  it  all,  and  he  would  die,  live 
over  that  death  again,  as  it  were.  All  about  him  the 
others  would  be  snoring,  or  groaning,  muttering  or 
cursing,  like  drunkards  in  their  sleep.  Perhaps  they 
were  dying,  too.  Now,  he  must  die  again.  And  he 
had  already  died  a  thousand  deaths.  Kouka  had  died, 
too,  but  only  once.    ... 

What  was  that?  Marriott?  His  heart  stopped. 
But,  no,  it  was  not  Marriott.  There  was  still  hope; 
there  was  always  hope  so  long  as  Marriott  did  not 
come.  It  was  only  the  old  Lutheran  preacher,  Mr. 
Hoerr.  He  came  to  pray  with  him  ?  This  was  strange, 
thought  Archie.  Why  should  he  pray  now?  What 
diflFerence  could  that  make?  Prayers  could  not  save 
him ;  he  had  tried  that,  sometimes  at  night,  as  well  as 
he  could,  imploring,  pleading,  holding  on  with  his 


THE  TURN   OF,  THE   BALANCE      589 

wHoIe  soul,  until  he  was  exhausted ;  but  it  did  no  good ; 
no  one,  or  nothing  heard.  The  only  thing  that  could 
do  any  good  now  was  the  governor.  .  .  .  Still,  he 
was  glad  it  was  not  Marriott.  He  had,  suddenly,  be- 
gun to  dread  the  coming  of  Marriott.  .  .  .  But  this 
preacher?  Well,  he  could  pray  if  he  wanted  to,  it 
seemed  to  please  him,  to  be  a  part  somehow  of  the 
whole  ceremony  they  were  going  through.  Yet  he 
might  pray  if  it  gave  him  any  pleasure.  He  had  read 
of  their  praying,  always;  but  Mr.  Hoerr  must  not 
expect  him  to  stop  smoking  cigarettes  while  he  prayed. 
Archie  lighted  a  fresh  cigarette  hurriedly,  inhaled 
the  smoke,  filling  his  lungs  in  every  cell.  .  .  .  The 
preacher  had  asked  him  if  he  was  reconciled,  if  he 
were  ready  to  meet  his  God.  Archie  did  not  reply. 
He  stared  at  the  preacher,  the  smoke  streaming  from 
his  lips,  from  his  nostrils.  Ready  to  meet  his  God? 
What  a  strange  thing  to  ask !  He  was  not  ready,  no ; 
he  had  not  asked  to  meet  his  God,  yet.  There  was  no 
use  in  asking  such  a  question;  if  they  were  uncertain 
about  it,  or  had  any  question,  or  feared  any  danger 
they  could  settle  it  by  just  a  word — a  word  from  the 
governor.  Then  he  would  not  have  to  meet  his  God, 
•  .  .  Where  was  his  God  anyhow  ?  He  had  no  God. 
.  .  .  These  sky-pilots  were  strange  fellows!  He 
never  knew  what  to  say  to  them.  .  .  .  **The  blood  of 
Jesus."  .  .  .  Oh,  yes,  he  had  heard  that,  too.  .  .  . 
Was  he  being  game?  What  would  the  papers  say? 
Would  the  old  Market  Place  gang  talk  about  it  ?  And 
Mason,  and  Dillon,  and  Gibbs?  And  Curly,  too?  They 
might  as  well;  doubtless  they  would.  They  settled 
whomever  they  pleased.  .  .  .  Out  at  Nussbaum's  sa- 
loon in  the  old  days.    .    .    .   His  mother,  and  Jakie  and 


590      TtlE  TURN   OF  THE  BALANCE 

little  Katie  playing  in  the  back  yard,  their  yellow  heads 
bobbing  in  the  sunshine.  .  .  .  And  Gusta!  Poor 
Gusta !  Whatever  became  of  that  chump  of  a  Peltzer  ? 
He  ought  to  have  fixed  him.  .  .  .  The  old  man's 
rheumatic  leg.  .  .  .  And  that  case  of  his  against  the 
railroad.  .  .  .  John  O'Brien — rattler.  .  .  .  What 
was  the  word  for  leg?  Oh,  yes,  gimp.  .  .  .  Well,  he 
had  made  a  mess  of  it.  .  .  .  If  they  would  only  hang 
him,  instead.  .  .  .  Why  couldn't  they?  That  would 
be  so  much  easier.  He  was  used  to  thinking  of  that ;  so 
many  men  had  gone  through  that.  But  this  new  way, 
there  was  so  much  fuss  about  it.  .  .  .  Bill  Arnold. 
.  .  .  What  if?  .  .  .  Ugh.  .  .  .  How  cold  it 
was !  Had  some  one  opened  the  window  ?    .    .    . 

Yes,  he  was  the  fall  guy,  all  right,  all  right.  ...  A 
black,  intolerable  gloom,  dread  wastes  like  a  desert. 
Thirst  raged  in  his  throat.  ...  It  was  dry  and  sand- 
ed. ..  .  How  rank  the  cigarette  tasted!  .  .  . 
Why  did  the  others  huddle  there  in  the  back  of  the 
cage,  their  faces  black,  ugly,  brutal?  Were  they  plot- 
ting? They  might  slip  up  on  him,  from  behind.  He 
turned  quickly.  .  .  .  Well,  they  would  get  theirs,  too. 
...  .  One  day  in  the  wilderness  of  Samar  when  their 
company  had  been  detailed  to — the  flag — ^how  green  the 
woods  were ;  the  rushes — 

His  father  hated  him,  too,  yes,  ever  since.  .  .  . 
Eades — Eades  had  done  this.  God !  What  a  cold  prop- 
osition Eades  was !  .  .  .  One  day  when  he  was  a  lit- 
tle kid,  just  as  they  came  from  school  in  the  afternoon. 
.  .  .  The  rifle  range,  and  the  captain  smiling  as  he 
pinned  his  sharp-shooter's  medal  on.  .  .  .  Where  was 
his  medal  now  ?  He  meant  to  ask  the  warden  to  have  it 
pinned  on  his  breast  after —    He  must  attend  to  that, 


fHE   TURN   OF  THE   BALANCE      591 

and  not  forget  it.  He  had  spoken  to  Beck  about  it  and 
Beck  had  promised,  but  Beck  never  did  anything  he 
said  he  would.  ...  If,  now,  those  bars  were  not 
there,  he  could  choke  Beck,  take  his  gun — 

His  mind  suddenly  became  clear.  With  a  yearning 
that  was  ineffable,  intolerable,  he  longed  for  some 
power  to  stay  this  thing — if  he  could  only  try  it  all 
over  again,  he  would  do  better  now !  His  mind  had 
become  clear,  incandescent ;  he  had  a  swift  flashing  con- 
ception of  purity,  faith,  virtue — but  before  he  could 
grasp  the  conception  it  had  gone.  He  was  crying,  his 
mother,  he  remembered — but  now  he  could  not  see  her 
face,  he  could  see  the  shape  of  her  head,  her  hair,  her 
throat,  but  not  her  face.  He  could,  however,  see  her 
hands  quite  distinctly.  They  were  large,  and  brown, 
and  wrinkled,  and  the  fingers  were  curved  so  that  they 
were  almost  always  closed.  .  .  .  But  this  was  not  be- 
ing game ;  he  needn't  say  dying  game  just  yet. 

Was  that  Marriott?  No,  the  warden.  He  had 
brought  him  something.  He  was  thrusting  it  through 
the  bars.  A  bottle !  Archie  seized  it,  pressed  it  to  his 
lips.  Whisky!  He  drank  long  and  long.  Ah!  That 
was  better!  That  did  him  good!  That  beat  prayers, 
or  tears,  or  solitaire,  or  even  wishing  on  the  black  cat. 
That  made  him  warm,  comfortable.  There  was  hope 
now.  Marriott  would  bring  that  governor  around! 
Marriott  was  a  hell  of  a  smart  fellow,  even  if  he  had 
lost  his  case.  Perhaps,  if  he  had  had  Frisby, — Frisby 
was  smart,  too,  and  had  a  pull.  He  drank  again.  That 
was  better  yet.  What  would  it  matter  if  the  governor 
refused?  It  wouldn't  matter  at  all;  it  was  all  right. 
This  stuff  made  him  feel  game.    How  much  was  there 


592      THE  TURN.  OE  THE  BALANCE 

in  tHe  Ijottle?  .  .  .  AH,  the  cigarettes  tasted  better, 
too,  now    .    .    . 

Marriott  ?  No,  not  this  time.  Well,  that  was  good. 
It  was  the  barber  come  to  "top''  him. 

The  barber  shaved  bare  a  little  round  spot  on 
Archie's  head,  exposing  a  bluish-white  disk  of  scalp 
in  the  midst  of  his  yellow  locks.  And  then,  kneeling 
with  his  scissors,  he  slit  each  leg  of  Archie's  trousers 
to  the  knee.  Then  the  warden  drew  a  paper  out  of  his 
pocket  and  began  to  read. 

Archie  could  not  hear  what  he  read.  After  the  bar- 
ber began  shaving  his  head,  he  fell  into  a  stupor,  and 
sat  there,  his  eyes  staring  straight  before  him,  his 
mouth  agape,  a  cigarette  clinging  to  his  lower  lip  and 
dangling  toward  his  chin.  He  looked  like  a  young 
tonsured  priest  suddenly  become  imbecile. 

When  they  finished,  he  still  sat  there.  Some  one 
was  taking  off  his  shoes.  Then  there  was  a  step.  He 
looked  up,  as  one  returning  from  a  dream.  He  saw 
some  one  standing  just  within  the  door  of  the  ante- 
chamber. Marriott?  No,  it  was  not  Marriott.  It 
was  the  governor's  messenger. 

Without  in  the  cell-house  the  long  corridors  had 
been  laid  deep  in  yellow  sawdust,  so  that  the  fall  of  the 
feet  of  the  midnight  guests  might  not  awaken  the  con- 
victs who  slept  so  heavily,  on  the  narrow  bunks  in 
their  cells,  after  their  dreadful  day  of  toil. 


XXXI 

"All  ready,  Archie." 

Jimmy  Ball  touched  him  on  the  shoulder.  The 
grated  door  was  open,  and  Beck  stood  just  inside  it, 
his  revolver  drawn.  He  kept  his  eye  on  the  others, 
huddled  there  behind  him. 

"Come,  my  boy." 

He  made  an  effort,  and  stood  up.  He  glanced  to- 
ward the  open  grated  door,  thence  across  the  flagging 
to  the  other  door,  and  tried  to  take  a  step.  Out  there 
he  could  see  one  or  two  faces  thrust  forward  suddenly ; 
they  peered  in,  then  hastily  withdrew.  He  tried  again 
to  take  a  step,  but  one  leg  had  gone  to  sleep,  it  prickled, 
and  as  he  bore  his  weight  upon  it,  it  seemed  to  swell 
suddenly  to  elephantine  proportions.  And  he  seemed 
to  have  no  knees  at  all ;  if  he  stood  up  he  would  col- 
lapse.   How  was  he  ever  to  walk  that  distance  ? 

"Here !"  said  Ball.  "Get  on  that  other  side  of  him. 
Warden." 

Then  they  started.  The  Reverend  Mr.  Hoerr,  wait- 
ing by  the  door,  had  begun  to  read  something  in  a 
strange,  unnatural  voice,  out  of  a  little  red  book  he  held 
at  his  breast  in  both  his  hands. 

"Good-by,  Archie !"  they  called  from  behind,  and  he 
turned,  swayed  a  little,  and  looked  back  over  his  shoul- 
der. 

"Good-by,  boys,"  he  said.  He  had  a  glimpse  of  their 
faces;  they  looked  gray  and  ugly,  worse  even  than 

593 


594   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

they  had  that  evening — or  was  it  that  evening  when 
with  sudden  fear  he  had  seen  them  crouching  there  be- 
hind him  ? 

Perhaps  just  at  the  last  minute  the  governor  would 
change  his  mind.  They  were  walking  the  long  way 
to  the  door,  six  yards  off.  The  flagging  was  cold  to 
his  bare  feet;  his  slit  trouser-legs  flapped  miserably, 
revealing  his  white  calves.  Walking  had  suddenly  be- 
come laborious ;  he  had  to  lift  each  leg  separately  and 
manage  it;  he  walked  much  as  that  man  in  the  rear 
rank  of  Company  21  walked.  He  would  have  liked  to 
stop  and  rest  an  instant,  but  Ball  and  the  warden 
walked  beside  him,  urged  him  resistlessly  along,  each 
gripping  him  at  the  wrist  and  upper  arm. 

In  the  room  outside,  Archie  recognized  the  reporters 
standing  in  the  sawdust.  What  they  were  to  write  that 
night  would  be  in  the  newspapers  the  next  morning, 
but  he  would  not  read  it.  He  heard  Beck  lock  the  door 
of  the  death-chamber,  locking  it  hurriedly,  so  that  he 
could  be  in  time  to  look  on.  Archie  had  no  friend  in 
the  group  of  men  that  waited  in  silence,  glancing  curi- 
ously at  him,  their  faces  white  as  the  whitewashed  wall. 
The  doctors  held  their  watches  in  their  hands.  And 
there  before  him  was  the  chair,  its  oil-cloth  cover  now 
removed,  its  cane  bottom  exposed.  But  he  would  have 
to  step  up  on  the  little  platform  to  get  to  it. 

*'No — yes,  there  you  are,  Archie,  my  boy!"  whis- 
pered Ball.    "There!" 

He  was  in  it,  at  last.  He  leaned  back;  then,  as  his 
back  touched  the  back  of  the  chair,  started  violently. 
But  there  were  hands  on  his  shoulders  pressing  him 
down,  until  he  could  feel  his  back  touch  the  chair  from 
his  shoulders  down  to  the  very  end  of  his  spine.  Some 


THE  TURN   OF  THE   BALANCE      59S 

one  had  seized  his  legs,  turned  back  the  slit  trousers 
from  his  calves. 

''Be  quick!"  he  heard  the  warden  say  in  a  scared 
voice.  He  was  at  his  right  side  where  the  switch  and 
the  indicator  were. 

There  were  hands,  too,  at  his  head,  at  his  arms — 
hands  all  over  him.  He  took  one  last  look.  Had  the 
governor —  ?  Then  the  leather  mask  was  strapped  over 
his  eyes  and  it  was  dark.  He  could  only  feel  and  hear 
now — feel  the  cold  metal  on  his  legs,  feel  the  moist 
sponge  on  the  top  of  his  head  where  the  barber  had 
shaved  him,  feel  the  leather  straps  binding  his  legs  and 
arms  to  the  legs  and  the  arms  of  the  chair,  binding 
them  tightly,  so  that  they  gave  him  pain,  and  he  could 
not  move.  Helpless  he  lay  there,  and  waited.  He 
heard  the  loud  ticking  of  a  watch;  then  on  the  other 
side  of  him  the  loud  ticking  of  another  watch ;  fingers 
were  at  his  wrists.  There  was  no  sound  but  the 
mumble  of  Mr.  Hoerr's  voice.   Then  some  one  said: 

"All  ready." 

He  waited  a  second,  or  an  age,  then,  suddenly,  it 
seemed  as  if  he  must  leap  from  the  chair,  his  body 
was  swelling  to  some  monstrous,  impossible,  unhuman 
shape ;  his  muscles  were  stretched,  millions  of  hot  and 
dreadful  needles  were  piercing  and  pricking  him,  a 
stupendous  roaring  was  in  his  ears,  then  a  million 
colors,  colors  he  had  never  seen  or  imagined  before, 
colors  no  one  had  ever  seen  or  imagined,  colors  beyond 
the  range  of  the  spectra,  new,  undiscovered,  summoned 
by  some  mysterious  agency  from  distant  corners  of  the 
universe,  played  before  his  eyes.  Suddenly  they  were 
shattered  by  a  terrific  explosion  in  his  brain — then 
darkness. 


596      THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE  j 

But  no,  there  was  still  sensation ;  a  dull  purple  color 
slowly  spread  before  him,  gradually  grew  lighter,  ex- 
panded, and  with  a  mighty  pain  he  struggled,  groping 
his  way  in  torture  and  torment  over  fearful  obstacles 
from  some  far  distance,  remote  as  black  stars  in  the 
cold  abyss  of  the  universe ;  he  struggled  back  to  life — 
then  an  appalling  confusion,  a  grasp  at  consciousness ; 
he  heard  the  ticking  of  the  two  watches — then,  through 
his  brain  there  slowly  trickled  a  thread  of  thought  that 
squirmed  and  glowed  like  a  white-hot  wire    ... 

A  faint  groan  escaped  the  pale  lips  below  the  black 
leather  mask,  a  tremor  ran  through  the  form  in  the 
chair,  then  it  relaxed  and  was  still. 

"It's  all  over."  The  doctor,  lifting  his  fingers  from 
Archie's  wrist,  tried  to  smile,  and  wiped  the  perspira- 
tion from  his  face  with  a  handkerchief. 

Some  one  flung  up  a  window,  and  a  draught  of  cool 
air  sucked  through  the  room.  On  the  draught  was 
borne  from  the  death-chamber  the  stale  odor  of  Rus- 
sian cigarettes.  And  then  a  demoniacal  roar  shook 
the  cell-house.    The  convicts  had  bcoi  awaket 


XXXII 

Late  in  the  winter  the  cable  brought  the  news  that 
Amos  Hunter  had  died  at  Capri.  Though  the  con- 
ventionaHties  were  observed,  it  was  doubtful  if  the 
event  caused  even  a  passing  regret  in  the  city  where 
Hunter  had  been  one  of  the  wealthiest  citizens.  The 
extinction  of  this  cold  and  selfish  personality  was 
noted,  of  course,  by  the  closing  of  his  bank  for  a  day ; 
the  Chamber  of  Commerce,  the  Board  of  Trade,  and 
the  Stock  Exchange  adopted  the  usual  resolutions,  and 
the  newspapers  printed  editorials  in  which  the  old 
canting,  hypocritical  phrases  were  paraded.  To  his 
widow,  beyond  the  shock  that  came  with  the  breaking 
of  the  habit  of  years,  there  was  a  mild  regret,  and  the 
daughter,  who  was  with  him  when  he  died,  after  the 
American  consul  had  come  to  her  assistance  and  ar- 
ranged to  send  the  body  home,  experienced  a  stealthy 
pleasure  in  her  homeward  journey  she  had  not  known 
on  the  outward  voyage. 

But  to  the  Wards  the  news  came  as  a  distinct  relief, 
for  now  the  danger,  if  it  ever  was  a  danger,  that  had 
hung  over  them  for  months  was  definitely  removed. 
They  had  grown  so  accustomed  to  its  presence,  how- 
ever, the  suspense  and  uncertainty  had  become  so 
much  a  part  of  their  lives  that  they  did  not  recognize 
its  reality  until  they  found  it  removed  altogether. 
Ward  and  Elizabeth  had  now  and  then  talked  about 

597 


598      THE  TURN   OF.  THE   BALANCE 

it  and  speculated  on  its  possibilities  of  trouble  in  a 
world  where  there  was  so  much  trouble;  and  Mrs. 
Ward  had  been  haunted  by  the  fear  of  what  her  world 
might  say.  Now  that  this  danger  was  passed,  she  could 
look  on  it  as  a  thing  that  was  as  if  it  never  had  been, 
and  she  fondled  and  caressed  her  full-grown  son  more 
than  ever.  Ward  was  glad,  but  he  was  not  happy.  He 
saw  that  Dick's  character  had  been  marked  definitely. 
The  boy  had  escaped  the  artificial  law  that  man  had 
made,  but  he  had  not  evaded  the  natural  law,  and  Ward 
realized,  though  perhaps  not  so  clearly  as  Elizabeth 
realized,  that  Dick  must  go  on  paying  the  penalty  in 
his  character  year  after  year — perhaps  to  the  end  of 
his  days. 

If  it  made  any  real  difference  to  Dick,  he  did  not 
show  it.  Very  early  in  the  experience  he  seemed  to 
be  fully  reassured,  and  Ward  and  Elizabeth  and  Mar- 
riott saw  plainly  that  he  was  not  wise  enough  to  find 
the  good  that  always  is  concealed  somewhere  in  the 
bad.  Dick  took  up  his  old  life,  and,  so  far  as  his  re- 
stricted opportunities  now  permitted,  sought  his  old 
sensations.  Elizabeth  sadly  observed  the  continued 
disintegration  of  his  character,  expressed  to  her  by 
such  coarse  physical  manifestations  as  his  excessive 
eating  and  drinking  and  smoking.  And  she  saw  that 
there  was  nothing  she  or  any  one  could  now  do;  that 
no  one  could  help  him  but  himself,  and  that,  like  the 
story  of  the  prodigal  of  old,  which  suddenly  revealed 
its  hidden  meaning  to  her  in  this  personal  contact  with 
a  similar  experience,  he  must  continue  to  feed  on  husks 
until  he  came  to  himself.  How  few,  she  thought,  had 
come  to  themselves !  Elizabeth  had  been  near  to  boast- 
ing that  her  own  eyes  had  been  opened,  and  they 


THE  TURN   OF  THE   BALANCE      599 

had,  indeed,  been  washed  by  tears,  but  now  she  Humbly; 
wondered  if  she  had  come  to  herself  as  yet.  She  had' 
long  ago  given  up  the  fictions  of  society  which  her; 
mother  yet  revered;  she  had  abandoned  her  formal 
charities,  finding  them  absurd  and  inadequate.  Mean-'' 
while,  she  waited  patiently,  hoping  that  some  day  she 
might  find  the  way  to  life. 

She  saw  nothing  of  Eades,  though  she  was  con- 
stantly hearing  of  his  success.  His  conviction  of 
Archie  had  given  him  prestige.  He  considered  the 
case  against  Curly  Jackson,  but  finding  it  impossible 
to  convict  him,  feeling  a  lack  of  public  sentiment,  he 
was  forced  to  nolle  the  indictment  against  him  and 
reluctantly  let  him  go.  In  fact,  Eades  was  having  his 
trouble  in  common  with  the  rest  of  humanity.  Though 
he  had  been  applauded  and  praised,  all  at  once,  for 
some  mysterious  reason  he  could  not  understand  but 
could  only  feel  in  its  eflFect,  he  discovered  an  eccen- 
tricity in  the  institution  he  revered.  For  a  while  it  was 
difficult  to  convict  any  one;  verdict  after  verdict  of 
not  guilty  was  rendered  in  the  criminal  court;  there 
seemed  to  be  a  reaction  against  punishment. 

When  Amos  Hunter  died,  Eades  began  to  think 
again  of  Elizabeth  Ward.  He  assured  himself  that 
after  this  lapse  of  time,  now  that  the  danger  was  re- 
moved, Elizabeth  would  respect  him  for  his  high- 
minded  impartiality  and  devotion  to  duty,  and,  indeed, 
understand  what  a  sacrifice  it  had  been  to  him  to  decide 
as  he  had.  And  he  resolved  that  at  the  first  opportu- 
nity he  would  speak  to  her  again.  He  did  not  have  to 
wait  long  for  the  opportunity.  A  new  musician  had 
come  to  town,  and,  with  his  interest  in  all  artistic  en- 
deavors, Braxton  Parrish  had  taken  up  this  frail  youth 


6oo      THE  TURN   OF.  THE   BALANCE 

who  could  play  the  violin,  and  had  arranged  a  recital 

at  his  home. 

Elizabeth  went  because  Parrish  had  asked  her  espe- 
cially and  because  her  mother  had  urged  it  on  her,  "out 
of  respect  to  me,"  as  Mrs.  Ward  put  it. .  When  she  got 
there,  she  told  herself  she  was  glad  she  had  come  be- 
cause she  could  now  realize  how  foreign  all  this  ar- 
tificial life  had  become  to  her;  she  was  glad  to  have 
the  opportunity  to  correct  her  reckoning,  to  see  how 
far  she  had  progressed.  She  found,  however,  no  profit 
in  it,  though  the  boy,  whose  playing  she  liked,  inter- 
ested her.  He  stood  in  the  music-room  under  the  mel- 
low light,  and  his  slender  figure  bending  gracefully  to 
his  violin,  and  his  sensitive,  fragile,  poetic  face,  had 
their  various  impressions  for  her;  but  she  sat  apart 
and  after  a  while,  when  the  supper  was  served,  she 
found  a  little  nook  on  a  low  divan  behind  some  palms. 
But  Eades  discovered  her  in  her  retreat. 

"I  have  been  wondering  whether  my  fate  was  settled 
— after  that  last  time  we  met,"  he  said,  after  the  awk- 
>vard  moment  in  which  they  exchanged  banalities. 

The  wonder  was  in  his  words  alone;  she  could  not 
detect  the  uncertainty  she  felt  would  have  become  him. 

"Is  it  settled?" 

"Yes,  it  is  settled." 

He  was  taken  aback,  but  he  was  determined,  always 
determined.  He  could  not  suppose  that,  in  the  end, 
she  would  actually  refuse  him. 

"Of  course,"  he  began  again,  "I  could  realize  that 
for  a  time  you  would  naturally  feel  resentful — though 
that  isn't  the  word — but  now — ^that  the  necessity  is 
passed — that  I  am  in  a  sense  free — I  had  let  myself 
begin  to  hope  again." 


THE  TURN   OF  THE   BALANCE      6oi 

"You  don't  understand,"  she  said,  almost  sick  at 
heart.  "You  didn't  understand  that  day.'* 

"Why,  I  thought  I  did.    You  wanted  me — ^to  let  him 

go- 

"Yes." 

"And  because  I  loved  you,  to  prove  that  I  loved 
you—" 

"Exactly." 

"Well,  then,  didn't  I  understand  you?" 

"No." 

"Well,  I  confess,"  he  leaned  back  helplessly,  "you 
baffle  me." 

"Oh,  but  it  wasn't  a  bargain'^  she  said.  Her  gray 
eyes  looked  calmly  into  his  as  she  told  him  what  she 
knew  was  not  accurately  the  truth,  and  she  was  glad 
of  the  moment  because  it  gave  her  the  opportunity  to 
declare  false  what  had  so  long  been  true  to  her,  and, 
just  as  she  had  feared,  true  to  him.  She  felt  restored, 
rehabilitated  in  her  old  self-esteem,  and  she  relished 
his  perplexity. 

"It  seems  inconsistent,"  he  said. 

"Does  it?  How  strange!"  She  said  it  coldly,  and 
slowly  she  took  her  eyes  from  him.  They  were  silent 
for  a  while. 

"Then  my  fate  is  settled — irrevocably  ?"  he  asked  at 
length. 

"Yes,  irrevocably." 

"I  wish,"  he  complained,  "that  I  understood." 

"I  wish  you  did,"  she  replied. 

"Can't  you  tell  me?" 

"Don't  force  me  to." 

"Very  well,"  he  said,  drawing  himself  up.     "I  beg 


6o2   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

your  pardon."  These  words,  however,  meant  that  the 
apology  should  have  been  hers. 

As  they  drove  home,  her  mother  said  to  her : 

"What  were  you  and  John  Eades  talking  about  back 
there  in  that  corner?" 

**An  old  subject." 

"Was  he — "  Mrs.  Ward  was  burning  with  a  cu- 
riosity she  did  not,  however,  like  to  put  into  words. 

Elizabeth  laughed. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "he  was,    Butsjl  settled  him." 

"I  hope  you  were  not — " 

"Brutal?" 

"Well,  perhaps  not  that — you,  of  course,  could  not 
be  that." 

"Don't  be  too  sure." 

They  discussed  Eades  as  the  carriage  rolled  along, 
but  their  points  of  view  could  never  be  the  same. 

"And  yet,  after  all,  dear,"  Mrs.  Ward  was  saying, 
"we  must  be  just.    I  don't  see — " 

"No,"  Elizabeth  interrupted  her  mother.  "You 
don't  see.  None  of  you  can  see.  It  wasn't  because  he 
wouldn't  let  Dick  go.  It  was  because  that  one  act  of 
his  revealed  his  true  nature,  his  real  self;  showed  me 
that  he  isn't  a  man,  but  a  machine ;  not  a  human  being, 
but  a  prosecutor;  he's  an  institution,  and  one  can't 
marry  an  institution,  you  know,"  she  concluded  oddly. 

"Elizabeth !"  said  Mrs.  Ward.  "That  doesn't  sound 
quite  ladylike  or  nice !" 

Elizabeth  laughed  lightly  now,  in  the  content  that 
came  with  the  new  happiness  that  was  glowing  within 
her. 


XXXIII 

Curly  Jackson  was  hurrying  along  Race  Street,  glad 
of  his  old  friend,  the  darkness,  that  in  February  had 
begun  to  gather  at  five  o'clock.  He  passed  a  factory, 
a  tall,  ugly  building  of  brick,  and  in  the  light  of  the 
incandescent  lamps  he  could  see  the  faces  of  the  ma- 
chinists bent  over  the  glistening  machines.  Curly' 
looked  at  these  workmen,  thought  of  their  toil,  of 
the  homes  they  would  go  to  presently,  of  the  wives 
that  would  be  waiting,  and  the  children — suddenly  a 
whistle  blew,  the  roar  of  machinery  subsided,  whirred, 
hummed  and  died  away;  a  glad,  spontaneous  shout 
went  up  from  the  factory,  and,  in  another  minute,  a 
regiment  of  men  in  overalls  and  caps,  begrimed  and 
greasy,  burst  into  the  street  and  went  trooping  off  in 
the  twilight.  The  scene  moved  Curly  profoundly ;  he 
longed  for  some  touch  of  this  humanity,  for  the  fellow- 
ship of  these  working-men,  for  some  one  to  slap  his 
back,  and,  in  mere  animal  spirits  and  joy  at  release, 
sprint  a  race  for  half  a  block  with  him. 

Curly  felt  that  these  workmen  were  like  him,  at 
least,  in  one  respect,  they  were  as  glad  to  be  released 
from  the  factory  as  he  had  been  half  an  hour  before  to 
be  released  from  the  jail.  He  had  left  the  jail,  but  he 
was  not  free.  Inside  the  jail  he  had  the  sympathy  and 
understanding  of  his  fellows ;  here  he  had  nothing  but 
hatred  and  suspicion.  Even  these  men  trooping  along 
beside  him  and,  to  his  joy,  brushing  against  him  now 

603 


6o4      THE  TURK  OF,  THE   BALANCE 

and  then,  would  have  scorned  and  avoided  him  had 
they  known  he  was  just  released  from  prison.  There 
was  no  work  for  him  among  them,  and  his  only  free- 
dom lay  still  in  the  fields,  the  woods,  and  along  the 
highways  of  gravel  and  of  iron. 

''Well,"  he  thought,  grinding  his  teeth  bitterly, 
"they'll  have  to  pay  toll  now  !'* 

He  found  Gibbs  in  his  back  room,  alone,  and  evi- 
dently in  a  gloomy  mood.  Gibbs  stretched  his  hand 
across  the  table. 

"Well,  Curly,  I'm  glad  to  see  some  one  in  luck." 
"You're  right,  Dan,  my  luck's  good.  I'm  no  hoodoo. 
To  be  in  the  way  I  was  and  have  your  pal  topped,  to 
make   a   clear  lamas — that  looks   like   good   luck  to 
me." 

"Oh,  well,  they  never  had  anything  on  you." 
"They  didn't  have  anything  on  Dutch  neither — ^but 
in  the  frame-up  I  didn't  know  but  they'd  put  a  sinker 
on  me,  too.  What  made  me  sore  was  having  that 
Flanagan  rap  against  me — why,  great  God!  a  job  like 
that — ^that  some  fink,  some  gay  cat  done  after  he'd  got 
scared !"  Jackson  could  not  find  the  words  to  express 
his  disgust,  his  sense  of  injury,  the  stain,  as  it  were, 
on  his  professional  reputation. 

"It  was  that  they  put  Dutch  away  on." 
"Sure,  I  know  that,  Dan,  and  everybody  knows  that. 
It  was  just  like  a  mob  of  hoosiers  after  you  with  pitch- 
forks; like  that  time  old  Dillon  and  Mason  and  me 
gave  'em  battle  in  the  jungle  in  Illinois.  Well,  that's 
the  way  these  people  was.  They  was  howlin'  around 
that  court-house  and  that  pogey — God !  to  think  of  it ! 
To  think  of  a  fellow's  getting  a  lump  like  that  handed 
to  him — all  for  croakin'  a  copper!"    Curly  shook  his 


THE  TURN  of:  THE  BArANCE      ^5 

Head  a  moment  in  his  inability  to  understand  this  situa- 
tion, and  he  held  his  hands  out  in  appeal  to  Gibbs,  and 
said  in  his  high,  shrill  voice,  emphasizing  certain 
words : 

"What  in  hell  do  you  make  of  it,  Dan  ?" 

"What's  the  use  wasting  time  over  that?"  Gibbs 
asked.  "That's  all  over,  ain't  it?  Then  cut  it  out 
Course," — it  seemed,  however,  that  Gibbs  had  some 
final  comment  of  his  own  to  make — "you  might  say  the 
kid  ought  to've  had  a  medal  for  croaking  a  gendie.  I 
wisht  when  he  pushed  his  barker  he'd  wiped  out  a  few 
more  bulls.    He  was  a  good  shot." 

Gibbs  said  this  with  an  air  of  closing  the  discussion, 
and  of  having  paid  his  tribute  to  Archie. 

"Well,  Dan,"  Curly  began,  "you'll  have  to  put  me 
on  the  nut  until  I  can  get  to  work.  I  haven't  even  got 
pad  money.  I  gave  my  bit  to  Jane ;  she  says  graft's  on 
the  fritz.  She  twisted  a  super,  but  it  was  an  old  can- 
ister— has  she  been  in  to-day  ?" 

Gibbs  shook  his  head  gloomily. 

"She  didn't  expect  'em  to  turn  me  out  to-day." 
Curly  mused  in  a  moment's  silence.  "Ain't  she  the 
limit?  One  day  she  was  goin'  to  bash  that  sister  of 
poor  Dutch,  the  next  she's  doubled  with  her,  holdin' 
her  up.  She  had  me  scared  when  she  landed  in ;  I  was 
'fraid  she'd  tip  off  the  lay  somehow — course" — ^he  has- 
tened to  do  her  justice — "I  knew  she  wouldn't  throw 
me  down,  but  the  main  bull —  What's  wrong,  Dan?** 
Curly,  seeing  that  Gibbs  was  not  interested,  stopped 
suddenly. 

"Oh,  everything's  wrong.  Dean's  been  here — now 
he's  pinched !" 

"No!    What  for?" 


6o6      THE  TURN   OF.  THE  BALANCE 

"You'd  never  guess." 

"The  big  mitt?" 

"No,  short  change!  He  came  in  drunk — he's  been 
at  it  for  a  month ;  of  course,  if  he  hadn't,  he  wouldn't 
have  done  anything  so  fooHsh.  Did  you  know  a  moll 
buzzer  named  McGlynn  ?  Well,  he  got  home  the  other 
day  from  doin'  a  stretch,  and  Ed  gets  sorry  for  him 
and  promises  to  take  him  out.  So  they  go  down  to  the 
spill  and  turned  a  sucker — Ed  flopped  him  for  a  ten !" 
Gibbs's  tone  expressed  the  greatest  contempt.  "He'll 
be  doing  a  heel  or  a  stick-up  next,  or  go  shark  hunt- 
ing. Think  of  Ed  Dean's  being  in  for  a  thing  like 
that!" 

"Is  he  down  at  the  boob?" 

"No,  we  sprung  him  on  paper.  He's  all  broke  up — 
you  heard  about  McDougall  ?" 

"What  about  him?" 

"Dead ;  didn't  you  know  ?  Died  in  Baltimore — some 
one  shot  him  in  a  saloon.  He  wouldn't  tell  who;  he 
was  game — died  saying  it  was  all  right,  that  the  guy 
wasn't  to  blame.  And  then,"  Gibbs  went  on,  "that 
ain't  all.    Dempsey  was  settled." 

"Yes,  I  read  it  in  the  paper." 

"That  was  a  kangaroo,  too." 

"I  judged  so ;  they  settled  him  for  the  dip.  How  did 
it  come  off  ?" 

"Oh,  it  was  them  farmers  down  at  Bayport.  Demp- 
sey had  a  privilege  at  the  fair  last  fall ;  he  took  a  hier- 
onymous — hanky-panky,  chuck-a-luck." 

"Yes,  I  know,"  said  Curly  impatiently,  "the  old 
army  game." 

"Well,  he  skinned  the  shellapers,  and  they  squealed 
this  year  to  get  even.    They  had  him  pinched  for  the 


THE   TURN   OF   THE   BALANCE      607 

dip.      Why,    old    Dempsey    couldn't    even    stall — ^he 
couldn't  put  his  back  up  to  go  to  the  front !" 

"Who  did  it?" 

"Oh,  a  little  Chicago  gun.    You  don't  know  him." 

"Well,"  said  Curly,  "you  have  had  a  run  of  bad 
luck." 

"Do  you  know  what  does  it?"  Gibbs  leaned  over 
confidentially,  a  superstitious  gleam  in  his  eye.  "It's 
that  Koerner  thing.  There's  a  hoodoo  over  that  family. 
That  girl's  been  in  here  once  or  twice — with  Jane. 
You  tell  Jane  not  to  tow  her  round  here  any  more.  If 
I  was  you,  I'd  cut  her  loose — she'll  queer  you.  You 
won't  have  any  luck  as  long  as  you're  filled  in  with 
her." 

"I  thought  the  old  man  had  some  damages  coming 
to  him  for  the  loss  of  his  gimp,"  said  Curly. 

"Well,  he  has;  but  it's  in  the  courts.  They'll  job 
him,  too,  I  suppose.  He  can't  win  against  that  hoodoo. 
The  courts  have  been  taking  their  time." 

The  courts,  indeed,  had  been  taking  their  time  with 
Koerner's  case.  Months  had  gone  by  and  still  no  hint 
of  a  decision.  The  truth  was,  the  judges  of  the  Supreme 
Court  were  divided.  They  had  discussed  the  case  many 
times  and  had  had  heated  arguments  over  it,  but  they 
could  not  agree  as  to  what  had  been  the  proximate  cause 
of  Koerner's  injury,  whether  it  was  the  unblocked  frog 
in  which  he  had  caught  his  foot,  or  the  ice  on  which  he 
had  slipped.  If  it  was  the  unblocked  frog,  then  it  was 
the  railroad  company's  fault ;  if  it  was  the  snow  and  ice, 
then  it  was  what  is  known  as  the  act  of  God.  Dixon, 
McGee  and  Bundy,  justices,  all  thought  the  unblocked 
frog  was  the  proximate  cause ;  they  argued  that  if  the 
irog;  had  been  blocked,  Koerner  could  not  have  caught 


6og      THE  TURN  OF.  THE  BALANCE 

his  foot  in  it.  They  were  supported  in  their  opinion  by 
Sharlow,  of  the  nisi  prius  court,  and  by  Gardner,  Daw- 
son and  Kirkpatrick,  of  the  Appellate  Court;  so  that 
of  all  the  judges  who  were  to  pass  on  Koerner's  case, 
he  had  seven  on  his  side.  On  the  other  hand,  Funk, 
Hambaugh  and  Ficklin  thought  it  was  God's  fault  and 
not  the  railroad  company's ;  they  argued  it  was  the  ice 
causing  him  to  slip  that  made  Koerner  fall  and  catch 
his  foot. 

It  resulted,  therefore,  that  with  all  the  elaborate  ma- 
chinery of  the  law,  one  man,  after  all,  was  to  decide 
this  case,  and  that  man  was  Buckmaster,  the  chief 
justice.  Buckmaster  had  the  printed  transcript  of  the 
record  and  the  printed  briefs  of  counsel,  but,  like  most 
of  his  colleagues,  he  disliked  to  read  records  and  mere- 
ly skimmed  the  briefs.  Besides,  Buckmaster  could  not 
fix  his  mind  on  anything  just  then,  for,  like  Archie,  he, 
too,  was  under  sentence  of  death.  His  doctor,  some 
time  before  this,  had  told  him  he  had  Bright's  disease, 
and  Buckmaster  had  now  reached  the  stage  where  he 
had  almost  convinced  himself  that  his  doctor  was 
wrong,  and  he  felt  that  if  he  could  take  a  trip  south, 
he  would  come  back  well  again.  Buckmaster  would 
have  preferred  to  lay  the  blame  of  Koerner's  accident 
on  God  rather  than  on  the  railroad  company.  He  had 
thought  more  about  the  railroads  and  the  laws  they  had 
made  than  he  had  about  God  and  the  laws  He  had 
made,  for  he  had  been  a  railroad  attorney  before  he 
became  a  judge;  indeed,  the  railroad  companies  had 
had  his  party  nominate  him  for  judge  of  the  Supreme 
Court.  Buckmaster  knew  how  much  the  railroads  lost 
in  damages  every  year,  ^nd  how  the  unscrupulous  per- 
sonal-injury  lawyers   mulcted   them;  and   just  now, 


THE  TURN  OF.  THE  BALANCE      6og 

when  he  was  needing  this  trip  south,  and  the  manager 
of  the  railroad  had  placed  his  own  private  car  at  his 
disposal,  Buckmaster  felt  more  than  ever  inclined  to- 
ward the  railroad's  side  of  these  cases.  Therefore, 
after  getting  some  ideas  from  Hambaugh,  he  an- 
nounced to  his  colleagues  that  he  had  concluded,  after 
careful  consideration,  that  Funk  and  Hambaugh  and 
Ficklin  were  right;  and  Hambaugh  was  designated  to 
write  the  profound  opinion  in  which  the  decision  of 
the  court  below  was  reversed. 

Marriott  had  the  news  of  the  reversal  in  a  telegram 
from  the  clerk  of  the  Supreme  Court,  and  he  sat  a  long 
time  at  his  desk,  gazing  out  over  the  hideous  roofs 
and  chimneys  with  their  plumes  of  white  steam. 
.  .  .  Well,  he  must  tell  old  Koerner.  He  never 
dreaded  anything  more  in  his  life,  yet  it  must  be  done. 
But  he  could  wait  until  morning.  Bad  news  would 
keep. 

But  Marriott  was  spared  the  pain  of  bearing  the 
news  of  this  final  defeat  to  Koerner.  It  would  seem 
that  the  law  itself  would  forego  none  of  its  privileges 
as  to  this  family  with  which  it  so  long  had  sported. 
The  news,  in  fact,  was  borne  to  Koerner  by  a  deputy 
sheriff. 

Packard,  the  lawyer  for  the  Building  and  Loan 
Company  which  held  the  mortgage  on  Koerner's  house, 
had  been  waiting,  at  Marriott's  request,  for  the  deter- 
mination of  Koerner's  suit  against  the  railroad  com- 
pany. That  morning  Packard  had  read  of  the  reversal 
in  the  Legal  Bulletin,  a  journal  that  spun  out  daily 
through  its  short  and  formal  columns,  the  threads  of 
misery  and  woe  and  sin  that  men  tangle  into  that  in- 
extricable snarl  called  "jurisprudence."    And  Packard 


6io   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

immediately;  that  very  morning,  began  his  suit  in  fore- 
closure, and  before  noon  the  papers  were  served. 

When  Marriott  knocked  at  the  httle  door  in  Bolt 
Street,  where  he  had  stood  so  often  and  in  so  many 
varying  moeds  of  hope  and  despair, — ^though  all  of 
these  moods,  as  he  was  perhaps  in  his  egoism  glad  to 
feel,  had  owed  their  origin  to  the  altruistic  spirit, — ^he 
felt  that  surely  he  must  be  standing  there  now  for  the 
last  time.  He  glanced  at  the  front  of  the  little  home ; 
it  had  been  so  neat  when  he  first  saw  it;  now  it  was 
weather-beaten  and  worn;  the  front  door  was 
scratched,  the  paint  had  cracked  and  come  off  in 
flakes. 

The  door  was  opened  by  the  old  man  himself,  and 
he  almost  frightened  Marriott  by  the  fierce  expression 
of  his  haggard  face.  His  shirt  was  open,  revealing 
his  red  and  wrinkled  throat;  his  white  hair  stood  up 
straight,  his  lean  jaws  were  covered  with  a  short,  white 
beard,  and  his  thick  white  eyebrows  beetled  fearfully. 
When  he  saw  Marriott  his  lips  trembled  in  anger,  and 
his  eyes  flashed  from  their  caverns. 

"So!"  he  cried,  not  opening  wide  the  door,  not  in- 
viting Marriott  in,  "you  gom',  huh  ?" 

"Yes,  Mr.  Koerner,"  said  Marriott,  "I  came — to—" 

"You  lost,  yah,  I  know  dot !  You  lose  all  your  cases, 
huh,  pretty  much,  aindt  it  so  ?" 

Marriott  flamed  hotly. 

"No,  it  isn't  so,"  he  retorted,  stepping  back  a  little. 
"I  have  been  unfortunate,  I  know,  in  your  case,  and  in 
Archie's,  but  I  did — " 

"Ho!"  scoffed  Koerner  in  his  tremendous  voice. 
"Veil !  Maybe  you  like  to  lose  anudder  case.  Hier!  I 
gif  you  von !" 


THE   TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE      6ii 

With  a  sudden  and  elaborate  flourisli  of  the  arm  he 
stretched  over  his  crutch,  he  delivered  a  document  to 
Marriott,  and  Marriott  saw  that  it  was  the  summons 
in  the  foreclosure  suit. 

"I  s'pose  we  lose  dot  case,  too,  aindt  it  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  Marriott  thoughtfully  and  sadly,  tap- 
ping his  hand  with  the  paper,  "we'll  lose  this.  When 
did  you  get  it  ?" 

"Dis  morning.    A  deputy  sheriff,  he  brought  'im — " 

"And  he  told  you—" 

"  'Bout  de  Oder  von  ?    Yah,  dot's  so." 
;r.  They  were  silent  a  moment  and  Marriott,  uncon- 
sciously, and  with  something  of  the  habit  of  the  family 
solicitor,  put  the  summons  into  his  pocket. 

"Veil,  I  bet  dere  be  no  delays  in  dis  case,  huh?" 
Koerner  asked. 

Marriott  wondered  if  it  were  possible  to  make  this 
old  man  understand. 

"You  see,  Mr.  Koerner,"  he  began,  "the  law — " 

The  old  German  reared  before  him  in  mighty  rage, 
and  he  roared  out  from  his  tremendous  throat : 

"Oh,  go  to  hell  mit  your  Gott-tamned  law !" 

And  he  slammed  the  door  in  Marriott's  face. 

I 

Koerner  was  right;  there  were  no  delays  now,  no 
questions  of  proximate  cause,  no  more,  indeed,  than 
there  had  been  in  Archie's  case.  The  law  worked  uner- 
ringly, remorselessly  and  swiftly;  the  Legal  Bulletin 
marked  the  steps  day  by  day,  judgment  by  default — 
decree — order  of  sale.  There  came  a  day  when  the 
sheriff's  deputies — ^there  were  two  of  them  now,  know- 
ing old  man  Koerner — went  to  the  little  cottage  in  Bolt 
Street.  Standing  on  the  little  stoop,  one  of  them,  hold- 


6i2      THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

ing  a  paper  in  his  hand,  rapped  on  the  door.  There  was 
no  answer,  and  he  rapped  again.  Still  no  answer.  He 
beat  with  his  gloved  knuckles;  he  kicked  lightly  with 
his  boot ;  still  no  answer.  The  deputies  went  about  the 
house  trying  to  pfeep  in  at  the  windows.  The  blinds 
were  down ;  they  tried  both  doors,  front  and  back ;  they 
were  locked. 

In  a  neighbor's  yard  a  little  girl  looked  on  with  the 
crude  curiosity  of  a  child.  After  the  man  had  tried 
the  house  all  about,  and  rightly  imagining  from  all  that 
was  said  of  the  Koerners  in  the  neighborhood  that  the 
law  was  about  to  indulge  in  some  new  and  sensational 
ribaldry  with  them,  she  called  out  in  a  shrill,  important 
voice : 

"They're  in  there,  Mister !" 

"Are  you  sure  ?" 

"Oh,  honest!"  said  the  officious  little  girl,  drawing 
Jier  chin  in  affectedly.    "Cross  my  heart,  it's  so." 

Then  the  deputy  put  his  shoulder  to  the  door ;  pres- 
ently it  gave. 

In  the  front  room,  on  the  plush  lounge,  lay  the  two 
children,  Jakie  and  Katie,  their  throats  cut  from  ear  to 
ear.  In  the  dining-room,  where  there  had  been  a 
struggle,  lay  the  body  of  Mrs.  Koerner,  her  throat  like- 
wise cut  from  ear  to  ear.  And  from  four  huge  nails 
driven  closely  together  into  the  lintel  of  the  kitchen 
door,  hung  the  body  of  old  man  Koerner,  with  its  one 
long  leg  just  off  the  floor,  and  from  his  long  yellow 
face  hung  the  old  man's  tongue,  as  if  it  were  his  last 
impotent  effort  to  express  his  scorn  of  the  law,  whose 
emissaries  he  expected  to  find  him  there. 


XXXIV 

The  series  of  dark  events  tKat  had  so  curiously  in- 
terwrought  themselves  into  the  life  of  Elizabeth  Ward 
seemed,  as  far  as  the  mind  of  mortals  could  determine, 
to  find  its  close  in  the  tragedy  which  the  despairing 
Koerner  contrived  in  his  household.  The  effects  of 
;all  these  related  circumstances  on  those  who,  however 
[remotely,  were  concerned  in  them,  could  not,  of  course, 
be  estimated;  but  the  horror  they  produced  in  Eliza- 
beth made  the  end  of  that  winter  a  season  of  depression 
that  left  a  permanent  impress  on  her  life  and  character. 
For  weeks  she  was  bewildered  and  afraid,  but  as  the 
days  went  by  those  events  began  to  assume  in  her  re- 
trospective vision  their  proper  relations  in  a  world  that 
speedily  forgot  them  in  its  contemplation  of  other  events 
exactly  like  them,  and  she  tried  to  pass  them  in  review ; 
the  Koerners  all  were  dead,  save  Gusta,  and  she  was 
worse  than  dead ;  Kouka  and  Hunter  were  dead ;  Dick 
was  still  astray ;  Graves  and  all  that  horde  of  poor  and 
criminal,  whose  faces  for  an  instant  had  been  turned 
up  in  appeal  to  her,  had  sunk  into  the  black  abyss 
again.    What  did  it  all  mean? 

She  sought  an  answer  to  the  questions,  but  could 
find  none.  No  one  could  help  her;  few,  indeed,  could 
understand  what  it  was  she  wished  to  know.  Her  fa- 
ther thought  the  market  quotations  important;  her 
mother  was  absorbed  in  the  way  in  which  certain  per- 

613 


6i4   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

sons  dressed,  or  served  their  meals,  or  arranged  their 
entertainments;  as  for  the  church,  where  once  she 
might  have  gone  for  help,  it  was  not  interested  in  her 
question. 

The  philosophers  and  the  poets  that  had  been  her  fa- 
vorites had  now  for  her  new  meanings,  it  is  true,  but 
they  had  been  writing  of  the  poor  and  the  imprisoned 
for  ages,  and  yet  that  very  morning  in  that  very  city, 
not  far  away,  there  were  countless  poor  and  criminal, 
and  as  fast  as  these  died  or  disappeared  or  were  put 
to  prison  or  to  death,  others  appeared  to  take  their 
places ;  the  courts  ground  on,  the  prisons  were  prompt- 
ly filled,  the  scenes  she  had  witnessed  in  the  slums  and 
at  the  prisons  were  daily  reenacted  with  ever-increas- 
ing numbers  to  take  the  places  of  those  who  went  down 
in  the  process.  And  men  continued  to  talk  learnedly 
and  solemnly  of  law  and  justice. 

She  thought  of  Marriott's  efforts  to  save  Archie ;  she 
thought  of  her  own  efforts;  the  Organized  Charities 
squabbling  as  to  whether  it  would  open  its  meetings 
with  prayer  or  not,  whether  it  would  hold  an  entertain- 
ment in  a  theater  or  some  other  building ;  she  remem- 
bered the  tedious  statistics  and  the  talk  about  the 
industrious  and  the  idle,  the  frugal  and  the  wasteful,  the 
worthy  and  the  unworthy.  When,  she  wondered,  had 
the  young  curate  ever  worked  ?  who  had  declared  him 
worthy  ?  When,  indeed,  had  she  herself  ever  worked  ? 
who  had  declared  her  worthy  ? 

But  this  was  not  all:  there  were  other  distinctions; 
besides  the  rich  and  the  poor,  the  worthy  and  the  un- 
worthy, there  were  the  "good"  and  the  "bad."  She 
indeed,  herself,  had  once  thought  that  mankind  was 
thus  divided,  one  class  being  rich^  worth}^  and  good. 


THE   TURN   OF   THE   BALANCE      615 

and  the  other  class  poor,  unworthy  and  bad.  But  now, 
while  she  could  distinguish  between  the  rich  and  poor, 
she  could  no  longer  draw  a  line  between  the  good  and 
the  bad,  or  the  worthy  and  the ,  unworthy,  though  it 
did  not  seem  difficult  to  some  people, — Eades,  for  in- 
stance, who,  with  his  little  stated  formula  of  life, 
thought  he  could  make  the  world  good  by  locking  up 
all  the  bad  people  in  one  place.  Surely,  she  thought, 
Eades  could  not  do  this;  he  could  lock  up  only  the 
poor  people.  And  a  new  question  troubled  Elizabeth : 
was  the  one  crime,  then,  in  being  poor?  But  gradu- 
ally these  questions  resolved  themselves  into  one  ques- 
tion that  included  all  the  others.  "What,"  she  asked 
herself,  "does  life  mean  to  me?  What  attitude  am  I 
to  adopt  toward  it  ?  In  a  word,  what  am  I,  a  girl,  hav- 
ing all  my  life  been  carefully  sheltered  from  these 
things  and  having  led  an  idle  existence,  with  none  but 
purely  artificial  duties  to  perform — what  am  I  to  do  ?" 
The  first  thing,  she  told  herself,  was  to  look  at  the 
world  in  a  new  Hght:  a  light  that  would  reveal,  dis- 
tinctly, all  the  poor,  all  the  criminal  in  the  great,  hag- 
gard, cruel  city,  not  as  beings  of  another  nature,  of  an- 
other kind  or  of  another  class,  different  from  herself, 
and  from  wh9m  she  must  separate  herself,  but  as  human 
beings,  no  matter  how  wretched  or  miserable,  exactly 
like  herself,  bound  to  her  by  ties  that  nothing  could 
break.  They  might,  indeed,  be  denied  everything  else, 
but  they  could  not  be  denied  this  kinship ;  they  claimed 
it  by  right  of  a  common  humanity  and  a  common  di-  1 
vinity.  And,  beginning  to  look  on  them  in  this  new  '^ 
light,  she  found  she  was  looking  on  them  in  a  new 
pity,  a  new  sympathy,  yes,  a  new  love.  And  suddenly 
she  found  the  peace  and  the  happiness  of  a  new,  life. 


6i6      THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

like  that  whicH  came  with  the  great  awakening  of  the 
spring. 

For  spring  had  come  again.  All  that  morning  a 
warm  rain  had  fallen  and  the  green  sward  eagerly 
soaked  it  up.  The  young  leaves  of  the  trees  were 
glistening  wet,  the  raindrops  clung  in  little  rows,  like 
strings  of  jewels,  to  the  slender,  shining  twigs;  they 
danced  on  the  swimming  pavement,  and  in  the  gutters 
there  poured  along  a  yellow  stream  with  great  white 
bubbles  floating  gaily  on  its  surface.  The  day  was 
still;  now  and  then  she  could  hear  the  hoof-beats  of 
the  horses  that  trotted  nervously  over  the  slippery 
asphalt.  It  rained  softly,  patiently,  as  if  it  had  always 
rained,  as  if  it  always  would  rain;  the  day  was  gray, 
but  in  the  yard  a  robin  chirped. 

Yes,  thought  Elizabeth,  as  she  faced  life  in  her  new 
attitude,  the  Koerners'  tragedies  are  not  the  only  ones. 
For  all  about  her  she  saw  people  who,  though  they 
moved  and  ate  and  talked  and  bustled  to  and  fro,  were 
yet  dead;  the  very  souls  within  them  were  atrophied 
and  dead;  that  is,  dead  to  all  that  is  real  and  vital  in 
existence.  They  who  could  so  complacently  deny  life 
to  others  were  at  the  same  time  denying  life  to  them- 
selves. The  tragedy  had  not  been  Koerner's  alone; 
it  had  been  Ford's  as  well;  Eades  could  not  punish 
Archie  without  punishing  himself ;  Modderwell,  in  ex- 
cluding Gusta,  must  exclude  himself;  and  Dick  might 
cause  others  to  suffer,  but  he  must  suffer  more.  He 
paid  the  penalty  just  as  all  those  in  her  narrow  lit- 
tle world  paid  the  penalty  and  kept  on  paying  the 
penalty  until  they  were  bankrupts  in  soul  and  spirit. 
The  things  they  considered  important  and  counted  on 
to  give  them  happiness,  gave  them  no  happiness ;  they 


THE   TURN   OF   THE   BALANCE      617 

were  the  most  unhappy  of  all,  and  far  more  desperate  j 
because  they  did  not  realize  why  they  were  unhappy.  J 
The  poor  were  not  more  poor,  more  unhappy,  more 
hungry,  or  more  squalid.     There  was  no  hunger  so 
gnawing  as  that  infinite  hunger  of  the  soul,  no  poverty 
so  squalid  as  the  poverty  of  mere  possession.     And  - 
there  were  crimes  that  printed  statutes  did  not  define,  "I 
and  laws  that  were  not  accidents,  but  harmoniously  I 
acting  and  reacting  in  the  moral  world,  revisited  this  1 
cruelty,  this  savagery,  this  brutality  with  increasing  I 
force  upon  those  who  had  inflicted  it  on  others.  .And  as  t 
she  thought  of  all  the  evil  deeds  of  that  host  of  mankind 
known  as  criminals,  and  of  that  other  host  that  pun- 
ished them,  she  saw  that  both  crime  and  punishment 
emanated  from  the  same  ignorant  spirit  of  cruelty  and 
fear.    Would  they  ever  learn  of  the  great  equity  and  * 
tolerance,  the  simple  love  in  nature?  They  had  but  to 
look  at  the  falling  rain,  or  at  the  sun  when  it  shone 
again,  to  read  the  simple  and  sufficient  lesson.  No,  she 
would  not  disown  these  people,  any  of  them.   She  must 
live  among  them,  she  must  feast  or  starve,  laugh  or  cry, 
despair  or  triumph  with  them ;  she  must  bear  their  bur- 
dens or  lay  her  own  upon  them,  and  so  be  brought  close 
to  them  in  the  great  bond  of  human  sympathy  and  love, 
for  only  by  love,  she  saw,  shall  the  world  be  redeemed. 

Meanwhile,  everything  went  on  as  before.  The  pe- 
culiar spiritual  experience  through  which  Elizabeth 
was  passing  she  kept  largely  to  herself:  she  could 
not  discuss  it  with  any  one ;  somehow,  she  would  have 
found  it  impossible,  because  she  realized  that  all  those 
about  her,  except  perhaps  Marriott,  would  consider  it 
all  ridiculous  and  look  at  her  in  a  queer,  disconcerting 


6i8   THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

way.  She  saw  few  persons  outside  of  her  own  family ; 
people  spoke  of  her  as  having  settled  down,  and  began 
to  forget  her.  But  she  saw  much  of  Marriott;  their 
old  friendly  relations,  resumed  at  the  time  the  trouble 
of  Gusta  and  Archie  and  Dick  had  brought  them  to- 
gether, had  grown  more  intimate.  Of.  Eades  she  saw 
nothing  at  all,  and  perhaps  because  both  she  and  Mar- 
riott were  conscious  of  a  certain  restraint  with  respect 
to  him,  his  name  was  never  mentioned  between  them. 
But  at  last  an  event  occurred  that  broke  even  this 
restraint :  it  was  announced  that  Eades  was  to  be  mar- 
ried. He  was  to  marry  an  eastern  girl  who  had  vis- 
ited in  the  city  the  winter  before  and  now  had  come 
back  again.  She  had  been  the  object  of  much  social  at- 
tention, partly  because  she  was  considered  beautiful,  but 
more,  perhaps,  because  she  was  in  her  own  right  very 
wealthy.  She  had,  in  truth,  a  pretty,  though  vain  and 
selfish  little  face ;  she  dressed  exquisitely,  and  she  had 
magnificent  auburn,  that  is,  red  hair.  People  were  di- 
vided as  to  what  color  it  really  was,  though  all  spoke 
of  it  as  "artistic."  And  now  it  was  announced  that 
she  had  been  won  by  John  Eades ;  the  wedding  was 
to  occur  in  the  autumn.  The  news  had  interested 
Marriott,  of  course,  and  he  could  not  keep  from  im- 
parting it  to  Elizabeth ;  indeed,  he  could  not  avoid 
a  certain  tone  of  triumph  when  he  told  her.  He  had 
seen  Eades  that  very  morning  in  the  court-house;  he 
seemed  to  Marriott  to  have  grown  heavier,  which 
may  have  been  the  effect  of  a  new  coat  he  wore,  or 
of  the  prosperousness  and  success  that  were  surely 
coming  to  him.  He  was  one  of  those  men  whom  the 
whole  community  would  admire;  he  would  always  do 


THE   TURN   OF  THE   BALANCE      619 

the  thing  appropriate  to  the  occasion ;  it  would,  some- 
how, be  considered  in  bad  form  to  criticize  him. 

The  newspapers  had  the  habit  of  praisifig  him;  he 
was  popular — precisely  that,  for  while  he  had  few 
friends  and  no  intimates,  everybody  in  the  city  ap- 
proved him.  He  was  just  then  being  mentioned  for 
Congress,  and  even  for  the  governorship. 

Yes,  thought  Marriott,  Eades  is  a  man  plainly 
marked  for  success;  everything  will  come  his  way. 
Eades  had  stopped  long  enough — and  just  long  enough 
— to  take  Marriott's  hand,  to  smile,  to  ask  him  the 
proper  questions,  to  tell  him 'he  was  looking  well,  that 
he  must  drop  in  and  see  him,  and  then  he  had  hastened 
away.  Marriott  had  felt  a  new  quality  in  Eades's  man- 
ner, but  he  could  not  isolate  or  specify  it.  Was  Eades 
changing  ?  He  was  changing  physically,  to  be  sure,  he 
was  growing  stouter,  but  he  was  at  the  age  for  that; 
the  youthful  lines  were  being  erased  from  his  figure, 
just  as  the  lines  of  maturity  were  being  drawn  in  his 
face.  Marriott  thought  it  over,  a  question  in  his  rnind. 
Was  success  spoiling  Eades  ? 

But  when  Marriott  told  Elizabeth  the  news,  she  did 
not  appear  to  be  surprised ;  she  did  not  even  appear  to 
be  interested.  The  summer  had  come  early  that  year ; 
within  a  week  it  had  burst  upon  them  suddenly.  The 
night  was  so  warm  that  they  had  gone  out  on  the 
veranda.  Marriott  watched  Elizabeth  narrowly,  there 
in  the  soft  darkness,  to  note  the  effect.  But  apparently 
there  was  no  effect.  She  sat  quite  still  and  said  noth- 
ing. The  noise  of  the  city  had  died  away  into  a  har- 
mony, and  the  air  throbbed  with  the  shrill,  tiny  sounds 
of  hidden  infinitesimal  life.     There  came  to  them  the 


620      THE  TURN   OF.  THE  BALANCE 

fragrance  of  the  lilacs,  jiist  blooming  in  the  big  yard 
of  the  Wards,  and  the  fragrance  of  the  lilacs  brought 
to  them  memories.  To  Marriott,  the  fragrance  brought 
memories  of  that  night  at  Hazel  Ford's  wedding;  he 
thought  of  it  a  long  time,  wondering.  After  a  while 
they  left  the  veranda  and  strolled  into  the  yard  under 
the  trees. 

"Do  you  know,"  said  Marriott,  "I  thought  you 
would  be  surprised  to  hear  of  John  Eades's  engage- 
ment." 

"Why?"  she  asked. 

"Well,  I  don't  know ;  no  one  had  noticed  that  he  was 
paying  her  any  attention — "  Suddenly  he  became  em- 
barrassed. He  was  still  thinking  of  the  evening  at 
Hazel  Ford's  wedding,  and  he  was  wondering  if  Eliza- 
beth were  thinking  of  it,  too,  and  this  confused  him. 

"Oh,"  Elizabeth  said,  as  if  she  had  not  noticed  his 
hesitation,  "I'm  very  glad — it's  an  appropriate  match." 

Then  she  was  silent ;  she  seemed  to  be  thinking ;  and 
Marriott  wondered  what  significance  there  was  in  the 
remark  she  had  just  made;  did  it  have  a  tribute  for 
Eades,  or  for  the  girl,  or  exactly  the  reverse  ? 

"I  was  thinking,"  she  began,  as  if  in  answer  to  his 
thought,  and  then  suddenly  she  stopped  and  gave  a 
little  laugh.  "Gordon,"  she  went  on,  "can't  you  see 
them  ?  Can't  you  see  just  what  a  life  they  will  live — 
how  correct,  and  proper,  and  successful — and  empty, 
and  hollow,  and  deadly  it  will  be — going  on  year  after 
year,  year  after  year?  Can't  you  see  them  with  their 
conception  of  life,  or  rather,  their  lack  of  conception  of 
it  ?"  She  had  begun  her  sentence  with  a  laugh,  but  she 
ended  it  in  deep  seriousness.  And  for  some  reason  they 
stopped  where  they  were;  and  suddenly,  they  knew 


THE  TURN  OK  THE  BALANCE      621 

that,  at  last,  the  moment  had  come.  Just  why  they  knew 
this  they  could  not  have  told,  either  of  them,  but  they 
knew  that  the  moment  had  come,  the  moment  toward 
which  they  had  been  moving  for  a  long  time.  They  felt 
it,  that  was  all.  And  neither  was  surprised.  Words,  in- 
deed, were  unnecessary.  They  had  been  talking,  for 
the  first  time  in  months,  of  Eades,  yet  neither  was 
thinking  at  all  of  the  life  Eades  and  his  fashionable 
wife  would  lead,  nor  caring  in  the  least  about  it.  Mar- 
riott knew  that  in  another  instant  he  would  tell  Eliza- 
beth what  long  had  been  in  his  heart,  what  he  should 
have  told  her  months  ago,  what  he  had  come  there  that 
very  night  to  tell  her ;  he  knew  that  everything  he  had 
said  that  night  had  been  intended,  in  some  way,  to  lead 
up  to  it;  he  was  certain  of  it,  and  he  thought  quite 
calmly,  and  yet  when  he  spoke  and  heard  his  own 
voice,  its  tone,  though  low,  showed  his  excitement; 
and  he  heard  himself  saying : 

*T  am  thinking — do  you  know  of  what?  Well,  of 
that  night—" 

And  then,  suddenly,  he  took  her  hands  and  poured 
out  the  unnecessary  words. 

"Elizabeth,  do  you  know — I've  always  felt — well, 
that  little  incident  that  night  at  Hazel  Ford's  wedding ; 
do  you  remember?  I  was  so  stupid,  so  bungling,  so 
inept.  I  thought  that  Eades — that  there  was — some- 
thing; I  thought  so  for  a  long  time.  I  wish  I  could 
explain — it  was  only  because — I  loved  you !" 

He  could  see  her  eyes  glow  in  the  darkness;  he 
heard  her  catch  her  breath,  and  then  he  took  her  in  his 
arms. 

"Oh,  Elizabeth,  dearest,  how  I  loved  you !  I  had  loved 
you  for  a  long,  long  time,  but  that  night  for  the  first 


622      THE  TURN  OF  THE  BALANCE 

time  I  fully  realized,  and  I  thought  then,  in  that  mo- 
ment, that  I  was  too  late,  that  there  never  had  been — " 

He  drew  her  close  to  him,  and  bent  his  head  and 
kissed  her  lips,  her  eyes,  her  hair. 

"Oh,  Gordon !"  she  whispered,  lifting  her  face  from 
his  shoulder.    "How  very  blind  you  were  that  night  !'* 

Long  after  Marriott  had  gone,  Elizabeth  sat  by  her 
window  and  looked  out  into  the  night;  above  the 
trees  the  stars  glowed  in  a  purple  sky.  She  was  too 
happy  for  sleep,  too  happy  for  words.  She  sat  there 
and  dreamed  of  this  love  that  had  come  to  her,  and 
tears  filled  her  eyes.  Because  of  this  love,  this  love 
of  Gordon  Marriott,  this  love  of  all  things,  she  need 
ask  no  more  questions  for  a  while.  Love,  that  was 
the  great  law  of  life,  would  one  day,  in  the  end,  ex- 
plain and  make  all  things  clear.  Not  to  her,  neces- 
sarily, but  to  some  one,  to  humanity,  when,  perhaps, 
through  long  ages  of  joy  and  sorrow,  of  conflict  and 
sin,  and  in  hope  and  faith,  it  had  purified  and  perfected 
itself.  And  now  by  this  love  and  by  the  new  light 
within  her,  at  last  she  was  to  live,  to  enter  into  life — life 
like  that  which  had  awakened  in  the  world  this  brood- 
ing tropical  night,  with  its  soft  glowing  stars,  its  moist 
air,  laden  with  the  odor  of  lilacs  and  of  the  first  blos- 
soms of  the  fruit  trees,  and  with  the  smell  of  the  warm, 
rich,  fecund  earth. 


( 


THE   END 


OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY 

Of 


5  14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 


LOAN  DEPT. 


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